


Schmidtsenna

by Darklady



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Politics, Saga - and I mean that literally, This may or may not be slash, This will edda my brain, Too much history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is in prison when a visitor from Jotunheim brings him some news. Life-changing, realm-wrecking, world-tree-shaking news.</p><p>Now Loki has to decide what to do about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you a witness in my trial, or have you come to murder me beforetimes?” Loki inquired as the guards allowed the stranger past his prison door. “It seems uncivil to push oneself forward when there is so long a line and so eager a company.”

“I am come to speak to you, not against you, Loki Silvertongue.”

The ice giant went to one knee before Loki’s chair. Even so – Loki standing – the two men were matched in height. All the better, perhaps, to give a clear view of the gold bands around the blue arms and the jeweled pins holding the visitors heavy furs. That last might have been more protection against the heat of the Asgard day, warm even this deep below Odin’s keep, but it still marked the visitor as wealthy. Likewise the gold torc peaking out from the fur hood signaled nobility and ancient house. Not a guard for the Bifrost then. Not even a lesser courtier. And he came alone, without Odin’s watchers? (Although Loki was not so deluded to think that the man came without Odin’s knowledge.)

“Well then, you are a rare guest. Drink and be welcome. Flesh and fire be yours. Although?” Loki indicated the nearby brassier, setting the chains on his wrist gangling. “I’m sure you would be better without the fire.”

Obedient to his magic, the small flames cooled.”

“As you say, Prince Loki.” The man stood, bowed head as much a concession to the roof beams as to rank. “I thank you.”

“Easy courtesies are no burden.”

A lesser tactician might have hidden his bonds, as if sleeves could cover shame. Really, Loki thought, such men wasted lies. How he was bound to his chair would be evident to any witness. How tightly his power was bound?

Loki summoned a wide bench. He indicated that his guest should sit. (Silently. It would be a breath or two before his voice was again strong.)

The giant smiled his thanks.

“I am Björn Kló, eldest-born of Jökull Ice-Pick, who was born of Hríðarbylur of the Western Islands.”

“Then welcome, Björn Jokullson.” Loki filled his own goblet with clear water before indicating that his guest should likewise help himself. “But now, what is this subject you come so far to discuss?”

The giant froze. Most literally, with cracks of ice wrapping around the pottery cup.

“The King has gone mad.”

“Ours or yours?” Loki forced his smile to lightness. “Or should I better say Odin or Helblindi, given that neither has my current devotion?”

“Helblindi, son of Laufey.”

And current King of Jotunheim. Loki made a note that Björn did not name him as such. Indeed, he did not even grant him a lesser honorific.

This conversation grew more pucient with ever word not spoken.

“He arms and rages and…” the giant ran out of words. Again, not a courtier.

“Moves to invade Asgard?” Loki prompted. Now that would be news valued enough to let Loki hear, if the messenger would report to no other man. Why one would speak only to a prisoned prince? That was less clear, but again interesting.

For his guest’s observation Loki made the effort to shrug.

“What did Odin expect, given how he ended what I had begun? But, for all my own rage, I will not move against the All-Father. Not even if I could, which clearly?”

Loki shook his chains.

“No, Great Prince. Not against Asgard, or likely I should not have come to you save with the banner of an army and the fullness of my house-carls. But as you see I have neither flag or trumpet nor indeed house.”

“What?” The shock in Loki’s voice was unsummoned and unfeigned. Army and allies might be left where one chose, but a name was a bit more affixed.

“That makes my tale.” Björn pushed back his hood, letting Loki observe the weary flakes around his eyes. “Helblindi marches, but he marches against his own lands.”

“To what end?” And again, the words had no purpose but honest questioning. Lords might rebel, and kings march to crush them, but those were the sports of wealthy lands worth taking as spoil. Jotunheim post-Bifrost was merely spoiled.

“No good end. And past that, no bad end any can name.”

The giant signed, the sound of ice over glaciers.

“When first Helblindi reached the high seat he was… perhaps no great king but no worse than many and better than the raven-feast that would come from rebellion. Byleistr his brother gave his hand and his oath, and that was enough for poor men. And in these harsh days we are all poor men.”

Well yes. Loki nodded his understanding. Even before the Bifrost had torn though Laufey’s holdings the Ice Giants had been the weakest in wealth. Now?

“He grumbled and groaned, taxed and tasked, but what king does not?” Bjorn continued. “And Norns grant he did have more cause than most. He called to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters – but again why should he not? I would no more debate that than any on Jotunheim. He sought treasure to pay mages – but that is again a reasonable tactic against a foe steeped in sedir.”

The giant again paused. “Pardon my words but…”

“I take no offense at the truth. At least, not this time. Truth is a solid meal, if of less savor than well spiced lies.”

“All were content enough with Helblindi as King until… a new advisor came to court. From where I know not, nor does any within my knowing. None who can name this man’s house, or his parent or his people. Nor can any say how it is he came to the land, save not from the Bifrost and not from within, and if there is any other path?”

He looked hopefully at Loki, who gave no answer.

This new minister spoke of how by his arts Jotunheim might reclaim the powers lost – he called it the Tessseract – and I vow his greatest spell was cast over Helblindi.”

“How so?”

“This new minister declared he must first have only one land. One people. That all of foreign name or blood must be purged as traitors unknowing.”

“Odd.”

“Even as you say, and I would add folly unto madness. But within the month Helblindi marched against Hríðarbylur of the Plains.”

“Who is?” Other than the protagonist in a saga that was becoming … interesting.

“One of the larger landholders. Sworn to the throne, but more lightly than many. Of Ymir’s blood by way of the Mountain clans. His lands are rich, with deep mines and jewels brought down from ancient glaciers.”

“As such, an easy source for that treasure you say Helblindi hunted.” Loki thru up his hands. “Perhaps it is foolish to go aviking in one’s own waters, but I answer you as you spoke to me. Such is often the way of new kings.” 

Foolish, short-sighted kings.

Loki refused to think too deeply upon that topic.

“So I might agree,” the giant answered, “had they come to battle. But Helblindi came to Hríðarbylurbúa as a guest, to drink and feast. Then in the night he snuck out, he and the few closest of him men. He bared the doors and burned the hall to the ground, with his host and all his household and many fighting men within.”

“What?!” Loki all but fell from his chair from the shock. Would have, had he not had strong chains to restrain him.

“So it is sung.” Björn nodded slowly, letting the crack of his skin emphasize his words. “I was not there, of course, but the Skald Vetur-Vindur made a rimur of it.

Loki snorted. “Much joy Helblindi Laufeyson has dancing at that tune.”

“It made him step quickly indeed. He invaded the hall where the skald was hosted. He captured Vetur-Vindur, and taking both arms and legs hung him from a scorn-post with the poet’s harp about his neck.” Bjorn swallowed hard. “There he died, unless by misfortune he still lives.” 

“More”, the giant continued, “he slew every person, man, child, thane, thrall…all who in hall and might have heard the song. Even the beasts in the barn he slew, lest one of them might be a shape-changer undeclared.” 

Björn shook his cup to dislodge the ice.

“Those were my people, that my father’s house, and those all my kin. I alone live, and that only because I was gone to hunt the Ice Bear on the most distant of our islands. Otherwise I should pace the whale-road to Hel and not the carpets of your chamber.”

“That is indeed a thing beyond enduring.” Even by ice-giant standards, Loki assumed, for all that those were legendarily low. Still, there was monstrous and there was… well, evidently there was Helblindi. Making one more set of potential relatives Loki now dismissed as having any useful potential – save perhaps to make Loki’s name less than lowest in the line.

“So spoke Byleistr, who was the younger of Laufey‘s sons.”

“Was?”

“His unfaithful brother fed him to a strange beast that came with the mage. He cast at Byleistr a wild light, such as none had before seen. He is gone, melted as a glacier in rime seas.”

“A bitter saga indeed.”

Loki sat deep in his chair. Unfortunately, the stones of the ceiling gave no inspiration.

“So why do you tell me?” he asked at last.

The giant smiled, bright and blinding as crystal even in the dim chamber.  
“You are Loki Runemaker. Everyone in all nine realms knows you are great in art. You could defeat this mad magician.”

Loki smiled, unable to hide a moment’s pleasure at the flattery. Not that anything untrue had been spoken, but…?

“If I had an army, or Odin’s weapons, or - yes – a chance to leave this rune-sealed chamber. Then perhaps I could battle this mage you do not name. But today?” He frowned dramatically at his fetters, then at the charm-heavy walls around them. “None of those three goods are likely to be granted even to my strongest persuasion.”

“But if you had those things, then you could remove this strange mage from our lands?”

“Could?” Loki left the speculation unanswered. Maybe, his wit answered. Always, he ego shouted. “Would?” Loki spoke on. “Why? For Helblindi’s thanks? I think there would be few of those, and his gifts unpleasing. To die on the battlefield may be more honored than to die abed, but I think I shall risk my daughter’s hospitality for all that.”

Not that Odin would give Loki such an honorable way out. Not now, when he was disowned and disfavored as well as distrusted.

“Besides.” Loki added, moved by his guest’s sudden downcast eyes. “There are other wizards in the realms.”

The ice giant stood, but only to kneel slowly – formally – at before Loki’s chair.

“Yes, there are many mages, but there is only one more son of Laufey.” He bowed low, head bent almost to the floor, and added “My Prince.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Icelandic Space Nazis. ‘Nuf said.

“Thor. Ill met at an ill time.” 

Unexpected, too. On hearing the door again open Loki had anticipated the step of his… of Odin All-Father, come to make demands. Or, if he would not lower himself to interrogate a suddenly-political prisoner, then Huginn or Muninn come to deliver demands. But Thor? Perhaps - before his current pretense of substance – he might have bounced down for a bit of giant-slaughter. Now? Loki grudgingly granted the man had sense enough not to break host-law. Political sense, however, remained far beyond his muscled reach.

“True. I will wish often to have come sooner.” Thor nodded to Loki’s first guest in passing, busy hauling the room’s last chair to colonize Loki’s rug-space. “Tell me what you think of his tale.”

With effort, Loki dredged up an indifferent smile. “Most touching. I would weep for the realm, were it not a realm of enemies sworn to murder all my kin. But wait?” One hand raise, he emphasized the drama. “That was last year. So, for once, false brother, you do manage to speak wisely. Better – for you – this tale were sung earlier. It would sound more deeply in the ear of Loki Odinson than that of Loki Laufeyson. Or wait, that should be Loptr Laufeyson, if I construe my true name properly.”

That last sounded strangely in his ears, but perhaps it would be best to become Loptr. Perhaps that would be easier for Jotunheim, to accept the stranger Loptr Misfarir and not Loki-who-was-son-to-Odin. (Easy, his mind whispered, for his mother to lose a non-son then to morn Loki-the-lost.)

And why is he thinking this, when all of it is madness?

And Thor – even blind Thor – has spotted his distraction.

“But tell me brother”, Thor presses, “will you do as he asks?”

“What? That is what you come to me for? Are you still so eager for Jotunheim’s blood that you would have me seek it for you, you who are forbidden to slaughter?”

Was Thor now willing to see Loki as one of the hated frost giants? And if he was, why did it sting, when was that not what Loki had demanded once and again?

Thor helped himself to Loki’s mead. “I ask you as one weary of blood sport, who has learned the wisdom of our father’s peace.”

That was a joke, and the proof of Loki’s judgment on his brother’s wit. “You think this would further it?”

“Little remains to make the slaughter worse, my Prince. You would be our deliverer, a second Ymir.”

Bjorn it was who first answered. But Thor, always the half-step slow, was none-the-less eager in line. “Father might allow this. I think. It was ever his word that you were born a king.”

“And raised a toy.” Loki snapped back, words coming on their own well-worn track.

“A King. In Asgard, if I rose not. In Jotunheim, now that Laufey is not. “

“And he thinks as King abroad I would be kinder and more faithful than I was as a son at home?”

Thor took his seat, leaning close. “You were the best of sons, the best of brothers.”

Unlikely judged, and worse if it was true, given that his path had earned him cells and chains. No. Loki disciplined his mind. Those were weak branches on his fate-tree. He could not walk them now lest they bent under him. He had indeed learned how painful it was to fall. Better to cling to what he knew held power.

He shook his chains, letting the clank of cold iron answer.

“Such enticements, such delicate diplomacies Odin sends to persuade me. Odin who despises to meet with me king to king? Bad enough that he still thinks to make me a puppet on a subject throne, a fratricide to cap a regicide, but this is mockery beyond bearing. He sends his son to flaunt my subjugation and shame me before my subjects.”

Well, one subject. But as Björn Kló was all the following Loki could claim?

“Brother. “

Thor fell forward, gripping one of Loki’s hands in both of his.

“Loki.” He would be no brother, kin to none.

“The All-father did not allow this visitor. I did.”

“Why? To torment me the more?” Loki turned his face away, shadows hiding rage or… something else.

“To plead with you in this as I will plead for you with our father.”

“Your father.”

“With Odin,” Thor yielded.

Loki waved him back to his chair. Really, so much blond ambition so close oppressed his blood.

“To what end?” Loki asked again. 

“No.” He cut off Thor’s first words unspoken. “Do not say again that you want me to claim to be King of Jotunheim. Then there will be two realms with mad rulers.”

“Why is it madness to prefer a clever brother over a cruel stranger?”

A dangerous question, since Thor sounded happy in the asking.

“So I am to be your puppet princeling? Not even Odin’s thane, but the thrall of his son?”

Thor laughed. “Brother and peer. No, more than peer, for you will be King first.”

Twice first. Loki had sat the throne of Asgard, for all both gods and mortals rushed to forget. As doubtless it would suit them to forget Loki’s rights and honors were his throne of crystal rather than of gold.

“I should be king last, and Odin’s slave first.” He turned to their silent audience. “Would you have that, Bjorn Bear-Claw? Would you be the thrall to a thrall?”

“Never.”

Loki cut off the rest of the demurral. “There you have your answer, Thor Odinson. Even a houseless exile will not bear Odin’s minion on the throne. So pass over your folly, un-brother.”

Thor shot Bjorn a bitter look before turning back to Loki.

“King, I swear to you.” Pausing, he held out Mjolnir. “For the need of these realms trust that truth, even if you never trust the love I bear you. Your kingdom, and peace between us. On my oath blood-sworn. My arm in your service until your throne be won.”

Loki fell back. To be struck by the hammer would be less a blow.

Even Bjorn gasped at the words.

“Why would you vow such a thing?” Loki asked, words weak in shock.

An oath, so sworn, could leave two realms barren – Loki in exile in if Helblindi of Jotunheim – or rather his untried mage - proved too strong. Thor bound to service until the impossible could be done.

“Because I must.”

“What must? Loki was little threat to you yesterday, and less daily if what is spoken of Jotunheim is true.” Not from Helblindi. Little manbót could be expected by a man who had killed his other brother. And not even Thor the Foolish Fond could think that brother-gifting required a throne.

Thor did not answer, save to nod at their silent guest. “He has told you of Helblindi’s mage?”

“Something.”

“Then let him say more.” Thor pointed his hammer towards the Ice Giant. “Tell him as you told it to me.”

“Shall I recount the blood-eagles, the burnings, the brandings, the outlawries and enslavements? The whippings and woundings? Shall I recite the public deaths and the vanishings unseen?”

“All these.” Loki commanded. “If you have seen them, speak of them. I would know this man you would make my foe.”

“What more testimony do you need than that I am before you, a beggar at the gates of Asgard?”

“That marks Helbinini’s folly, but my… but Prince Thor bids you speak of his servant.”

“I have told you thrice of Helblindi ill acts, but of the sedir útlagr I could recount a thousand.”

“And of those thousand he recited many to me before I would agree to bring him before you. Trust this, brother, this newcomer is a wizard most foul.”

“So he is evil. I am as well, or so I have been written.” Loki smiled, eyes bright with wicked cunning.” “Perhaps I should approach him with the gifts and flatteries Odin seem unable to offer me. Perhaps he will serve me as gladly as he does Helbindi.” 

Thor looked… sickened. Which lured Loki to strike deeper.

“Tell me, Prince of Asgard, would that suit the schemes of Allfather Odin? Would you pledge to me even then?”

Thor –shockingly - ignored the bait. “Speak yet more.” His commands to Björn Kló were harsh but they seemed more for the tale then for the teller. “Tell your Prince of the nature of this sorcerer.”

“What can I say? I do not know his land. I can not give you his parentage or his clan or even his name - if indeed such a creature has one. All I can swear is that I have never seen his like among any people. He is of a most strange visage. His face is colored as the iron being forged, like unto Surtur of Múspell. Yet he stands no taller than you do now. And his flesh, it does not move as does those of the fire giants, but rather clings as if there were but painted color over his skull.”

“Red faced, like a skull?”

A face twined from the mist of memory, like a morning fog on the Waters of Mimir. Not his own learning, then, but one of those borrowed and now dim in recalling. It was not, however, a happy memory nor a safe. Indeed, it seemed to taste of that one would flee more than call back.

And Loki, for all his sins, had never been called coward.

Never twice.

“Interesting.” He took Thor’s goblet. He would need the sustenance, and anyway no guest should drink before the king. “I have a memory of this, of Midgard.”

“And I of the tales told, of the Red Skull who battled the warrior Rogers of America and his Baresark Companions.” Thor’s expression was as grim as Loki had ever seen. “If this is the same villain, then not only the icelands are threatened, for these Nazi’s swore their weir was to conquer all lands and to slave or kill all folk.”

Which made this Skull, were he such, Ragnarǫk in all save name. Loki considered. Perhaps it was time to fly the wolf-banner after all.

“Send for my …” 

What did he mean to say? Father? No, let Odin come unbidden if he would, and recall he was no longer master of Loki’s love. Heimdell? But if that good warrior knew ought more he should long have told Thor, or if he did not it was because Odin wished the fact withheld. Then it was as before, and would do Loki no good. Who might both be summoned and be wise?

Loki rapped for the door guards. “Send to Midguard for the Man called Fury.” Surely he would know the foes of his own land. Loki thought to their last battle, then considered again at the memory of that bitter, one-eyed face.

“No!”

He stood.

The guards froze at his command.

Loki remembered one wise in Midgard’s War-Lore. One who could recite well tales of this red-skulled foeman. One who, by Loki’s luck, fell near to hand.

“Send rather to my daughter, and have her dispatch to me the Son of Coul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update once a week or better.  
> Warnings to all. Politics, not passions.


	3. Chapter 3

Loki kept his pace steady, showing with every step his confidence that the wide golden doors must open before him.

It was strange to walk again though these halls. Stranger still to do so in the skin of a Jotun. Most literally in his skin, and little more.

Thor had retrieved Loki’s armor and weapons, and Loki had been tempted by the comforting familiarity. One could even argue wisdom in the tactic of seeming Asir, of playing on some shred of a once-father’s hopeful affection. 

But no. 

A king must be of his own land only.

Thus the beaten gold torc of his Asgardian rank had been shed as a snake’s outgrown skin. Bare necked he stood before the All-Father, decent only because of a kilt remade from the furs of Björn Kló’s hood

“Odin.” Loki stopped a formal distance from the golden throne.

The King of Asgard stood in greeting. “Loki.”

They both left off all honorifics – a delicate dance – neither daring to concede any identity to the other until… until both knew who they might be. And this day, Loki was not even sure who he was. Which was… less than different. But this day moved from the others in that – by light’s end – he would know who he was to be ever after.

Loki summoned a chair. He was acting a monarch today – not a supplicant – and he would not deny his state.

He would not deny his art either. He was sedir, born and now bred. Best get that in the open, where none could deny nor renege should today’s bargain proved unbalanced. (As Loki was determined – most determined – that it would. Eventually.)

The floor felt discomfortingly warm below his bare feet. He repressed the impulse to check for puddles of meltwater.

“What is this story Thor says you have for me? Some tale you think will demand my consent to your rash actions?”

Another neutral question, although far from courteously phrased. Loki alone, of all those waiting, caught that Odin had not specified which rash actions, nor if the acts were past or yet to be.

“I bring no story but the singer of stories. After hearing, if any but wisdom directs your action? Well, your weir is your own.”

Loki glanced back at his retinue. Björn Kló stood at his left shoulder, a gray ghost at his right. Few indeed compared to the ranks behind Odin, but it mattered not. They were his.

Odin nodded at the mortal image. “Sing me then the saga of the Pain of Jotunheim”

“Hold.” Loki held up his hand. “He no more knows that then he knows how to rhyme. Plus I have no wish to roast here while he recounts seventy years of trivia. Coulson, give Odin the report on Steven Rogers and Schmidt - just as you would have given it to Fury.”

“Captain America?” The shade’s voice was a whisper of winter in the hall. “No. I’m not going to help you hurt him.”

Resistance? Interesting. This spirit retained more… spirit… then expected.

“Please, Son of Coul.” Thor leaned forward, pleading. “Speak to my father as Loki bids you. My brother wishes your realm only good.”

“I wouldn’t go that far… but I offer no immediate threat to the mortal rabble. Which you can’t say about Schmidt.”

Coulson bent. “Johann Schmidt. Red Skull. First head of HYDRA, Only head of HYDRA, really. Too harsh in action for even Hitler. He swore to conquer the earth, or to destroy it.”

Thor bounced a bit. “And this Captain America of yours slew him in heroic battle.”

“Yes. Well, no.” Coulson’s form shivered in the absent wind. “Well, not exactly.”

Loki gestured Coulson to go on.

“They did fight. And Captain Rogers won, of course.”

“Of course.”

A dual course, enthusiasm from Thor and a lower note – tinged not so much with cynicism as with ennui – from Odin.

“Captain America defeated the Red Skull’s men, forcing him to flee, but he could not catch the Red Skull himself before the man had reached his airplane. Schmidt used that to fly away – to escape but also to attack – because the plane held a fearsome device. Something we now call a WMD. Rogers found a way onto the plane and destroyed the last of HYDRA’s troops.”

“And then he faced his foe in mighty battle!” Thor interjected.

“They… fought. Schmidt had the Tesseract, and when he tried to use it as a weapon… it destroyed him.”

Now it was Loki’s turn to show interest. Not that he hadn’t heard this story before, if not exactly via ear. “Destroyed, or dissolved?”

“What difference does that make, brother? It is still a most glorious tale.”

And in listening to the story, Thor had clearly LOST THE PLOT. But enough of that constant and unnovel exemplar of the thunderer’s oafishness. The point IN point was the one which had to be made, and Odin was the only relevant audience. He, thank the Norns, was still focused.

“What say you, Son of Coul?” Odin demanded. “You who are speaking here with me. What fate found this Red Skull?”

“Dissolved.” The ghost’s voice faded even with the word.

“And in being so was taken by the Tesseract to whatever realm it rules, which in this case is evidently Jotunheim “ For political gain, Loki could overcome his loathing of repeating the obvious. “It is equally evident – given his actions there - that he retains some of the Tesseract’s power from that encounter.”

Loki summoned Björn Kló forward.

The Ice Giant fell to his knees between the two kings. Properly closer to Loki, but with his face three quarters toward Odin. 

Loki was impressed by the delicate dance of protocol.

He would do well to raise the young giant high in his soon-to-be court.

“In the time between Laufey’s death and this day, did the sky dance with strange lights?” Loki prompted. “Lights kin to the Bifrost, but wilder and more sudden?”

“It did. Indeed, Laufey’s second son Helblindi – he who then and this day sits Laufey’s throne - feared it was the dying time come back. He rode out with half his men, but when he returned alone… he said it was nothing. That it was only one man come, and that man was to be his guest. He ordered the bards not to sing of it. And….” Björn looked up at Loki with awe… “It is from that day that Prince Helblindi’s madness dates.”

“Then grant it is this Schmidt of Midgard.” Odin leaned back in his throne, the pantomime of a politic indifference. “You think that Asgard should go to war save your kingdom from him?”

“I think that soon enough, if he is allowed to gain power, you will be hard pressed to shield your kingdom from him, great King of the Asir.” Björn bowed low, the picture of a well-mannered courtier. “Had you a master sorcerer, one strong in sedir, then you might wait and defeat him at the gates, oh wise king. You did so once with another great foe, did you not?”

Björn’s smile was no more than polite. One might even call it meek, were it on a lesser specimen.

“But wait. Great king. Then you had… some assistance. I do recall the tales sung that way. But that man, he is no more in your court, it he?”

Oh yes, Loki was SO finding rings to give this man, even if he had to reforge his own jewels to grant them.

“Pity.” Loki’s own grin was far less proper. There were teeth.

“Loki. Do you say that, for petty vengeance, you will let your homeland suffer?” Munin spoke. One of Odin’s ministers, and far from the least foolish of that ill-gifted lot.

“My homeland? That place I am much inclined to save.” Loki held wide his hands. “Other lands?” He let the gesture drop – his silence in itself it’s own answer. “But if the idea of battle perturbs the peaceful souls of Asgard’s old men? I suppose I could simply send this Schmidt back to Midgard. He is, after all, more fittingly their problem.”

Loki made a show of deep consideration.

Thor, as always, was the only one fooled by Loki.

“Brother! You would not!”

“I would.” Except? “No, You are right. I have no cause to dislike Midgard more than any other realm.” And he owed Thor more for his oath, even so partial as it now stood, then the blessing of one backwater planet.

Loki turned to Munin. “Asgard… holds a different place in my love.”

There. Let the fool worry if that place was higher or more low.

“You come to me to rescue your homeland.” Loki pointed as Björn, still patient before them both. “You, Thor Odinson.” Loki pointed at the blond prince. “You wish me to safeguard your friends realm. And.” Loki paused, letting the audience parse for missing names. “I might – moved by your friendly pleadings and sweet words - wind my weir to do both.”

But!” Now Loki turned his gaze to the Asgard courtiers. “That is only a matter of Midgard and Jotunheim, and here – in this noble company?” Loki added a little bow. It was not one of submission. Or even much of courtesy. “Here we gather to read the runes for Asgard. Do you think I should also be your friend?” He glared at certain well-remembered men of the court, one after the other. “Should I act as best rewards your recent gifts and the hospitality of these last weeks?”

He let that sink in. Let the various warriors consider the petty slights and discourteous amusements they had indulged in the telling of Loki’s fall.

“Asgard need not be my enemy.”

He left it go unsaid that it was not his friend.

“But! I am to solve this problem of this Red Skull wizard? I shall expect a bit more reward than stale ale.”

Volstag blanched. Interesting. Loki made a note. So easily he learned the source of that particular injury.

“Are you a merchant now, Loki Silvertounge?” Hugin snorted from the safe rear of the company. “Will you bargain like the Dvergar?”

Loki ignored him, focused on the All-Father. “All things come at a price.”

Odin nodded, accepting the truth. “Has yours a name?”

Ah, there it was. So easy a step and so high.

Loki nodded back. “The Casket of Ancient Winters.”

That got the attention of the court. The sharp-edged attention.

“You ca…” Munin stopped, his tongue at the very edge of disaster. “I mean. You Majesty.” The man bowed low, as if to counterbalance his words. “Giving away such a powerful treasure - and to a powerful sorcerer – would be to make him a grave danger.”

“Truly spoken.” Hugin backed up the first speaker. “And of all rune-makers how rash to entrust the Casket to Loki, he who has proved dangerous enough already.” 

Loki shrugged. They would both right – and both irrelevant. Indeed, were they not right – were ne not dangerous and a sorcerer - the Casket would be irrelevant. As all knew. Still, for the court’s ears, he answered. “It is the only way. And I will not move without it.”

Munin, foolish, heard only the words. “So you confess you can not defeat this sorcerer without our… without Odin’s power?”

Time then to be blunt, as blunt as the wits on these witless witnesses.

“There are other powers, and I have proved I can slay.” And let them sleep uneasy unknotting the riddle in that. “But to be king – especially with so little behind me?” Loki turned all this attention to Odin. “I must promise Jotunheim much more than the absence of one evil. I must promise them an enduring good.”

He smiled gently at the court.

“That is why I do not ask your swords or your men – but only for a treasure that is mine by birth and my realm’s by right. Loki Odin-Thrall must be a curse upon the nine realms. Lopter the Redeemer would sound a much sweeter saga.”

Sweet on a bard’s tongue, and bitter indeed in Helblindi’s ear. Not that any would be fool enough to sing it to him. Well, none twice.

Odin held out his spear, commanding the court to silence.

“If.” He frowned down at Loki. “If, indeed, I must pay so high a friðkaup? Why should I not offer the casket to Helblindi? He is already a king.”

And so, thought Loki, we begin to bargain.

“Say already a corpse. Or worse.”

That brought murmurs even Odin could not staunch.

Loki’s back itched. He would feel better with his familiar armor. With any weapon, truly, but most with his own enchanted Surtur.

Again, no. 

Not that he would discard it utterly. It was a great weapon, and would serve well in common battles. This day, however, he faced no common foe.

If Loki was to be King, then he must deal with Odin as Jotunheim’s king. Any deal not struck thus could not be struck at all.

He would be king of a monstrous realm. But then – he gained little more when he sought to build a kingdom on Midgard. Indeed, between the two lands most would find Jotunheim- if not civilized – then at least a on a civilizations maps.

He would be subject to Odin – to whatever degree he could not wiggle away. But then – he would have been more subject to Thantos. The Chitanti were no part of Loki’s birthright– but he might (with just a bit of devising) soon raise an army all his own from Jotunheim. The greater number – if not the better force.

And in the end? What choice had he?

King. Or death. Or prison with pain until Ragnorak, which was final death.

Well then.

Given his options?

He would be King.

“The Red Skull is not a man to serve, not even for strategy. But he has arts to keep the body walking, even after the soul is gone.” 

The grumble grew, as each man understood Loki’s words, and then the charge behind the words. To mark a king – a kinsman and a king – as nithing? As not-a-person?

He spoke as much to his own court now. To Björn, who was all of his own court today, but beyond him to all the Jotun he must summon if he was to lead. “Thus I name Helblindi dead, even if he breathes, and I name myself Laufey’s only son and heir, and by that name make myself the only King of Jotunheim. This do I swear, upon two fathers, three realms, and my own útlagr.”

There, Loki thought. 

It is done.

Let them call me Lie-Smith now, if they dare.

When next any voice spoke, it was Odin to the Ice Giant Björn.

“You hear his charge. Do you think Helbindi’s thanes will take Odin’s fosterling as their king?”

The young man answered with a rimer. 

_“Thanes who host the red faced runelord  
Willingly would welcome Odin’s war-seat.”_

Odin laughed at the kenning. “Then, by the bards, I should be father and grandfather of great kings.”

All the court – from both sides – chucked.

Well it is written that a cunning verse is better than a wise law.

After a longer pause, Odin spoke again. “If I were to agree to what you ask, Loki of Jotunheim, I would want sworn oaths of peace. Not just for Asgard, but towards Midgard. Indeed, to all the realms Laufey threatened.”

So. Odin still dreamed of a powerless puppet king.

Nothing new there.

Loki consented. “If they will swear likewise.” He did not state all in all or each by each. Doubtless some one of the nine would give him cause to break from the wording, had he reason and cause enough for the folly of war. “I wish to rule in friendship with Asgard.” He could promise that much, even for what little he had received. “But know that I will not be ruled.”

“Within your own boundaries you may rule as you will – so long as the results of that reign remain fully within your borders.”

Of course, Odin was no fool to accept vague promises.

“So – no forbearance for Loki? You forgave time after time the aggressions of Laufey.”

“Not every time.”

Loki felt Thor wince, even over space dividing them.

“And if I bind you firmer than Laufey?” Odin continued. “It is because you will hold your realm in a tighter hand.” Odin raised his eyebrow meaningfully. “You are not one to overlook straying adventurers.”

Loki stood, this time offering the bow he had withheld before. “They are indeed wise who name King Odin wise.”

“As they are clever who name King Loki clever.”

And so easily it was done. Easy like the slip of a fire-sharpened blade.

“Your oath for mine.” Odin held out his golden spear.

Loki felt his hand hesitate. All promises made upon Gungnir were binding unto forever.

“So be it.” Then, pausing with the shaft in hand, he whispered to the old man. “King to king. I will give my word but will require of you one thing more – one answer. Why do you trust me? You are not the fool Thor is.”

“Should I not?”

“King to king.”

Now it was Odin who whispered – deep and low. “Loki Twice-Born-Prince. You had two careless kings at spear point – and I was not the one you slew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Thanes who host the red faced runelord  
>  Willingly would welcome Odin’s war-seat.”_
> 
> Translation?  
> It might mean:  
> After putting up with him (Red Skull), they’d crown your horse (Sleipnier)   
> BUT!  
> It can also be translated:  
> Those who now obey Helblindi (son of Laufey) will be happy to see Loki (son of Laufey) or even Loki’s son (grandson of Laufey) on the throne.


	4. Chapter 4

“Where have you been, brother?”

Thor rose hastily to his feet, still just in time to catch the bundle of frosted rags that fell from nowhere.

“Your majesty!” Björn sounded honestly surprised to see Loki’s face emerge from the wrappings.

He was halfway to his feet, uncertainty showing in his posture as he clearly debated kneeling, standing, or just going back to his chair. The first and last were most reasonable, given the height – or lack of height – of the ceiling. An ice giant fit uncomfortably into the small rooms of their quarters.

After the meeting with Odin Loki has insisted on returning to his cell, now politely renamed the Jotun Embassy. The primary distinction was that the spells on the walls were shifted from forbidding magic to merely reporting it.

That – and Loki could feel that they were stronger.

Odin was clearly a firm believer in treaty verification.

One had to respect that in a king.

“We asked, but no one knew where you had gone.” Björn clearly didn’t want to be seen complaining, although complain he did wish to do. “It is hard to serve you when we do not know your will.”

“Jotunheim. I went visiting. Although I confess I found the hospitality…scarce.”

It was an understatement – as always. Loki had travelled far and fast, with his new land as the last. He had spent three nearly frantic days in an accounting of who in the nine realms owed him. Who could be extorted by him. What material resources he could beg, borrow, scam, or steal.

The answer. Not enough. Never enough. (No war ever had enough funding. SO… things on that front were going about as could be expected.)

Björn froze, shocked. “The lords were… not willing to support you against…”

“The lords I did not consult.” Loki allowed himself to fall into a cushioned chair. A small brazier was burning close to Thor’s side of the room, and he summoned it over. There was cold, and then there were the pits of Rime-Ice, and just now he was unpleasantly aware of the distinction. “They will support me for their own reasons – in their own time. “

If they would not, then – well, if they were not so inclined already then this entire scheme would be a fools dreaming. And Loki was a dreamer, true and often, but not even his enemies called him foolish.

“Of course – I shall be at pains to give them those reasons.” He smiled comfortingly at his young companion. “In that? I find that my work is lessened, since Helblindi seems eager to do so much of it for me.”

Shaking off his sodden covers, Loki excavated a tightly rolled length of parchment. It was clearly old, a brown-tanned hide finished from the whole of some beast, with the edges further battered by it’s recent travels. (A treasure, but sadly one that would not be missed. The owner travelled now only in Niflheimr.)

Loki spread it on a table, weighting the edges with candlesticks and penholders – whatever trinkets came first to hand.

Laid flat, the three men – Loki, Thor, and Björn - could see it was a map of Jotunheim. A very fine map, for all that the paint flaked in spots, seeming worn by countless fingers tracing the delicate paths that navigated safe routes across the oceans of broken ice.

“Did you know that Helblindi had Skriðjökull Pækillson outlawed?

“Not while I was yet there. I knew that Helblindi had spoken against Skriðjökull, naming him a thief and an ill-dealer. But such is often said by gold-hungry men, and rarely does a meal come from biting more than one can swallow.” 

Catching Thor’s confusion, Björn explained. “Skriðjökull is one of the greatest sealords of the Rime Giants. The king might call him to law, but most of the others of the seacoast would rally to him…either by debts owed or just the desire for future favors.”

“There will be no future favors there.” Loki set a small gem - a paperweight - on the place that marked the Rime Giant’s stronghold. “Skriðjökull is dead, and all of his people likewise slain or exiled.”

“But then?” Björn’s voice marked honest confusion. “Who shall transport the goods?”

“A good question – and one best answered with another question. As in – what goods?”

Now Thor answered. “We do not trade with them – that is – the Asir do not. Nor do the Vanir, or not often. But the Álfar will, if there is gold. Niðavellir comes sometimes for salt, if they are in quarrel with Svartálfaheimr. And the dwarves of Svartálfaheimr trade with everyone.”

“Say rather that they did.” Loki dropped markers on another two ports, those of lesser sealords. ”It seems Jotunheim no longer welcomes merchants.”

“But how does Helblindi – how does any land - get iron, if not from the dwarves?” Björn asked.

“From the Ryðga mines,” Loki answered.

“Those are ruined!”

“So I observed… when I was most peremptorily invited to visit their depths.”

“Brother. They dared lay hands on a Prince?” At Loki’s glare he amended “On their King?”

“Clearly they knew me as neither, or Helblindi would have laid a blade to my neck.”

Loki pointed back to the shed rags.

“I travelled in the guise of a Dvergar tinker, selling pins and mending pots for the price of bread and gossip. A most useful ruse, and a safe passage to any hall that holds a cook. Or I thought it safe, until I learned of the new laws passed against such visitors.”

“He seeks also to banish pins as well as swords? What odd cowardice is this?”

“He forbids all foreign merchants, calling them parasites on the Jotun people. When captured both goods and gold are forfeit, and the travelers themselves condemned to labor in the mines unto death.”

“By the Norns brother! If I were not sworn to you before I would take that oath now. Such a monster can not be allowed a throne.”

“Nor shall he long have one, I assure you. “ Loki poured three cups of wine. A good cover for thinking, and a cause for any man to pause his feet. “But recall, Thor, your father’s teachings.”

_“Rude is he who rashly rushes.  
Wisdom, waiting, the raven repasts.” _

Thor raised the cup in a toast. “Your battle, brother-King.”

Loki drank in answer. “And we even now fight it.”

Turning his focus back to the map, he traced a twisting path down from Helblindi’s palace to the ports of the sea lords, then past that far up to a half-faded line of black marking one edge of a continent. It was an empty piece of coastland marked with little but narrow fjords and – further inland – leagues of flat plain rounded by mountains.

Of the many red boat-paths marked on the map, only one went up that far. The paint was crisp. Clearly, few had made a study of that route, and those rarely.

“Tell me, Björn – what is of interest in this area?”

“Very little, my king. It is not a place to farm, or even to hunt. So far to the north, the winds blow too cold even for the Ymir-born of the Mountain clans. “Björn peered close at the map, striving to bring back memories of a place he had never ventured. “Some, those both poor and brave, went there for treasure, when the climate was more gentle.”

“There are no deep mines. It is not like Sljóvgast, where bands of metal run though the rock. Thus no lord has claimed it. None – not even the outlawed, would wish to endure winter on that plain, when the winds blow from the mountains strong enough to force a sail-pin though a boat-mast.”

Thor nodded. He understood the power of such a storm.

Encouraged, Björn continued. “In the melting season, when water breaks from the ice walls of the canyons, iron and glass may be scavenged from an ancient meteor strike. Other metals too.” Björn laid down his dagger, fingers careful on the blade, so that the hilt showed clearly in the candlelight. “ They do not find gold, as one might mine in the south, but instead a white metal.

“Here I have a ring of it between the hilt and the blade” He slid the blade towards Thor, who examined it curiously.

“We call it hvísl málmur. It is stronger than carbon iron. It does not tarnish, as would silver. Best of all, it has the gift of dampening shocks - as from many blows.”

Thor passed the blade to Loki, who examined the hilt most carefully.

Björn continued his explanation. “Smiths put it in their hammer handles, and it is said that the warrior who bore such a sword could never tire in battle.”

“Does Helblindi - does any Jotun - have such a blade?”

Unlikely, Loki thought. More unlikely that he could have such a treasure unknown, or have it still after the riving Odin had visited upon Jotunheim. If such a blade existed, and Odin knew of it, Thor would have two weapons to play with. 

Or, a little voice whispered. Odin might have given it to another son. Not that Loki resented those favors offered to Thor. Of course not. Especially now that he understood how Thor was really Odin’s only son, and now that Loki had his own kingdom and no cause to feel less than any. 

Still?

Still, no man lived long who ventured carelessly.

And if there was such a treasure? Of course it should be in the hands of a rightful king.

“How there could be such a blade, outside of a bard’s wit?” Bjorn sipped at his own wine, needing something to do with empty hands. “The metal does not work as iron does, nor does it melt like gold. One can only mold the nuggets one finds slowly, like the drawing of wire.”

“Interesting. Very.” Loki tapped on the slim line of metal, holding it to his ear, then down close to the candle.

A metal that ate sound? One which could be neither hammered nor cast, but which might be with patience drawn and gently molded. When had he heard of such a metal? Where? Not in any saga sung in the high courts, for those he had memorized as a boy. Not in any bawds rhyme from the taverns he had followed Thor into over the years of their youth, for those he remembered well, if often with a wince of remembered pain. Not from the secret teaching or the treelore. Not from the Chitari nor from the dark places.

Yet?

He had heard of this. Had seen it. Knew it’s structure and… within his mind… it’s value. It’s HIGH value.

And if it came not from the known lands? Not from the Asir not the Vanir nor the Giants nor the Dwarves?

Well the. Nine minus eight left only one.

“May I keep this?” he asked.

The young ice giant bowed. “All that is mine is yours, my king. You may take what you wish.”

“Only if I wish to be a worse tyrant than Helblindi. No.” Loki reached back, finding the jeweled blade that marked his coming of age. The hilt was wrapped in gold wire, and the scabbard embroidered with runes. A gift from Odin, and worth more then a great lords death-price. Now he held it out to his new baron. “I will trade you. Blade for blade.”

“That is too rich a gift, my king!”

“It is but an even trade, Thane Björn.” Loki laughed, enjoying the shock he had put on his watchers faces. “Because this blade?” He held up the Björn’s small knife. ”This blade will cut through the last barrier between myself and my crown.”

Loki checked the times marked on the night-candle. It was late night in Asgard, but the sun nearer rising where he was headed.

Time enough for a bath and a meal.

Best to be at his best.

“Thor. Björn.” He called back as he summoned his own servants. “Pack well. We leave within the hour.”

*~*~*

“So, King Loki.” Thor leaned forward, giving the servant better angle to scrub his back. “Are we bound for Jotunheim?”

“No Thor.” Loki waved, using a small spell to dry his hair. “Somewhere much MUCH colder.”

“Muspeliem?”

“Midguard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More geekery - and I've needed to raise the chapter count. Sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

“Wait a minute!” Tony Stark stumbled two steps past the beige doorway, his Iron Man armor still in the process of retraction. It had taken those two steps – or rather their time – for him identify the odd character in the mix of suits. One step to spot the faux-medieval furs and leather, and a second to identify the face above them as… non-Norse-gods-help-him … “ LOKI? “He waved a still-gloved hand in the demigod’s direction. “This guy trashes Manhattan and now you want to give him SHIELD? What’s that, a lovely parting gift?”

“So nice of you to join us, Stark.” Fury didn’t even blink.

Tony decided it didn’t count. Man had a natural advantage there. Meaning Tony got a second shot.

“I thought SHIELD had more of a ‘shoot first – ask questions never’ policy about…”

“He’s a murderous bastard.” Fury cut off the impending rant. “But - for the right consideration - he’s prepared to be our murderous bastard.”

“SHIELD is going to go for that?” And oh yeh, of course it would go down that way. Fury was the guy who had worked with Howard Stark, and didn’t that bring up all sorts of happy memories.

“This is actually an NSA meeting, Mr. Stark.”, one of the bland suits interjected in an even blander voice, “SHIELD is only present as a courtesy.” From the narrow lips and hard eyes shared by the other suits, that was ‘courtesy’ in the old meaning of the word – to bow.

“And because Loki refuses to deal with anyone else.”

And there was Fury, getting his own back. Man couldn’t take a loss, even when it didn’t count. Something they shared, Tony realized. Except that only one of them had learned to list it as a weakness.

And hey – now he knew to whom, exactly, they were bowing. Maybe Loki couldn’t get a bunch of German opera fans to kneel, but evidently bureaucrats were made of weaker stuff. Low grade aluminum, maybe.

“Speaking for the NSA,” a second suit spoke up, “I would like to know why SHIELD thinks the Avengers need to be present.”

Tony pointed across the room. “Fury invited me.” With the same gesture he shot a thumb back to where the Black Widow was helping Captain America to unstrap his shield. “The rest are my plus one. Well, plus four, but you get the idea.”

Fury rolled his eye. “Loki also refused to negotiate without your happy presence.”

“Indeed, friend Anthony, your skills will be much needed if we…” Thor stopped, took back a breath like one hitting backspace, and then continued, “if KING Loki of Jotunheim … is to succeed as he must. To that end he makes these dealings with Midgard.”

“Wait a minute. How did he become a king?” Clint Barton, who had been five inches from Stark’s back ever since spotting the trickster god, now shot him a glare that was most accurately defined as murderous. That might have been in the literal and immediate sense if other SHIELD agents hadn’t confiscated his arrows at the door. 

The look he gave Thor wasn’t that much kinder. “I thought that was your gig?”

Thor had made his way to the other side of the room, and was currently holding up the wall behind his brother. At the question he tried to look small, which was – yes – ridiculous. “Odin still rules in Asgard.”

“Laufey, on the other hand?” Loki inserted. “The Jotun king fell in a sadly ill-advised commando attack on Asgard, one launched while Prince Thor was… absent. It fell to his eldest son to inherit his throne. I, so the Norns will it, am that son.”

“We in the NSA, in cooperation with the Oversight Committee, have agreed to assist His Majesty in claiming his rightful title.”

Something about that answer was sending up big red flags in Tony’s brain. The sort of flags he should have paid attention to when Obie suggested a warm summer vacation in Afghanistan. 

Natasha, mental ninja that she was, got there first. She stalked to Loki’s other side, flanking Thor. “Was this before or after you went genocidal on their assets?”

“Before. Very… shortly… before.”

Barton reached for the bow that was not there. “That’s got to make you popular.”

“Wait a minute.” Steve Rogers was looking… bright. The way he always got – unexpectedly – when battle details were mentioned. “Aren’t you the one who…?”

“Slew the invader and rescued the sleeping Odin?”

“Wow. Really popular.”

“Those actions did rather sour public opinion.” Loki agreed. “Thus my need to deal with… Midgard.”

A word which evidently rhymed with vermin. Who knew Allspeak was so… flexible.

“So.” Tony grabbed a chair and pushed it between two of the suits, making his own space right across the table from Loki. Let them move. He was playing here, and he wasn’t going to be playing from the kiddy table. “Let’s deal.”

He spared a moment to gesture sharply at one of the secretary types. If he had to take on supervillains with no notice and less than three hours of sleep? He was going to need coffee. Lots of coffee.

“As the song goes, everybody wants to rule the world. Why should we help you?” 

And why was Fury so gung-ho on hooking the Avengers up with this guy, rather than …say… dumping him in an active volcano? Because the NSA was a pack of pencil-dicks, and the Oversight Committee were soulless politicians, but Fury was neither of those, and the man had personal reasons to go Ragnarok on Loki’s arse. There had to be one hell of a reason for them all to be here, rather than Tony being in bed and Loki in a triple-warded containment facility somewhere? Because yeh, Thor loved his brother – homicidal lunatic that the kid was – but Thor wasn’t actually non compos and wouldn’t back this play unless there was more than crazy-cakes behind it.

Thinking of which?

“Thor? Why am I helping your brother?”

“It is his right!”

“It’s my right to drink a decent Kona, and since I’m currently looking at Maxwell House?” 

Loki answered first. Proving, for the record, that he was smarter than a suit-drone. Not that everyone including Stark Industries after-hour doorman wasn’t, but still…

“I can give you Johann Schmidt.”

Who? Oh yes, HYDRA guy. Another hit from the Howard Stark playlist. Wasn’t this just a walk down memory lane?

In the background he hears Steve Rogers whisper, “He’s alive?”

“Not sure we want him.”

“Would you have him on Jotunheim, building his forces?”

“Wouldn’t be my first choice, no.” Thor had been somewhat vague on the details of the last Jotun invasion – the one which saw Helsinki freeze over back in the Viking days – but from what he had told the Avengers? Not happy fun times. “Thing is? I’m not sure I’m fonder of you. I mean – between the ‘kneel and serve’ and the ripping out eyeballs? You’re not exactly a leading libertarian candidate. Plus you’re frankly a lot harder to kill than a walking iceberg.” That was speculation, but Tony was hoping Frost giants were easier to kill, because Loki had taken a Hulking and kept on sulking, and hero-wise Earth didn’t have many hitters heavier then the Hulk. “So you tell me. What makes you less of a pain than the Big Red Meanie?”

“I do not plan to rule Earth.”

Good point. Not a nice thought, but tactically? 

“I’m not sure I want to pay you just to go away.” 

OK. He probably would. Pepper regularly bitched him out for just paying problems to go away. Although in Loki’s case? She’d probably fetch the checkbook and write it off under ‘building insurance’. Except Loki wasn’t the type to settle for petty cash – and from the NSA/SHIELD/ Men in Black perspective? Even Stark Industries’ corporate billions counted as petty cash.

Loki - tossed a small lump of silver metal in his Tony’s direction.

It bounced five times on the way over. It didn’t ping once.

Interesting.

Tony rolled the nugget between his fingers. It didn’t scratch, not even when he rolled it over the gold-titanium alloy control bracelet he used to summon his armor. But – and this is what really caught his eye – it also didn’t vibrate or screech, not even when he pushed it down hard enough to leave marks on the bracelet’s manufactured diamond control interface.

More interesting.

He glanced back at Steve Rogers – or rather at Captain America. The captain had found a seat along the wall. He had hung his shield off the side of his chair, leaving the natural metal edge visible around the circles of bright paint. Tony spotted from the nugget, to the shield, to the nugget again.

The color matched.

Perfectly.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“I do not read thoughts, mortal."

Pity, Tony snarked to himself. Loki was turning in an Oscar-worthy portrait of indifference. Bad luck for him that Tony had never been much for art movies.

“If you think it is vibranium, however?” Loki continued.

Oh, and didn’t that get the heads bobbing around the room. Half the suits were staring at Loki, half at him, and a few in the back were going cross-eyed from trying to manage both at once.

“Stark?”

And there it was. His master’s voice. Arf! Not that Tony was a fan of old-style victrolas, and he’d always been inclined to piss on the leg of anyone who tried to make him a bitch.

He took his sweet time in answering. “Not pure – and I’ll want to test the hell out of it – but yes. This is vibranium.”

And maybe – just to be cynical – Loki had been prospecting in Wakanda. But given how even His Royal Stick-in-Arse’ness T’Challa hadn’t managed to come up with anything last time SHIELD had been pushed (by Tony, natch) to hand over more of the metal? Well, even a new prospecting method would be worth some serious shekels.

“Vibranium mined on Jotunheim.”

Pocketing the bit of metal, Tony turned all his attention to the only other important person in the room

“You have my attention.” 

He trusted Loki – if not the idiot suits - to decode the context, which was ‘you’ll need better than one pebble if you want to keep it’.

“Johann Schmidt is moving his forces to claim that mine. I am willing to let you have it.”

“So.” Anthony Edward Stark, CEO and all around capitalist bastard, sent Loki his very least sincere and honest smile. “I’ve seen your pot. What’s my ante in this game?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Even split in two, this chapter is WAY too long.  
> But hey - Thor!  
> (After typing this I'm so thor I can hardly thand.)

“I need gold, arms, and land.”

Thor has never been prouder of his brother. Even in plain garb, without the golden horns that marked his Asir rank, he looked and sounded every inch the King he was.

Barton snorted, a rude exclamation of wind. “I want a pony.”

There was a flash, and something four-legged and shaggy was neighing under a purple saddle blanket.

Thor frowned at his transformed teammate. “Do not mock my brother!”

“Please.” Loki smiled gentle over his shoulder. “He only postures for effect – and does it poorly.” With a languid wave, the archer was back, bits of well-chewed coffee cup dripping from his jaw.

“I repeat. Gold to bind the loyalty of Helbindi’s thanes. Laufey’s former thanes, soon to be mine.”

And so it starts, always with the least. Thor recognized the dance from his own youth, watching his father strike word against word with visiting diplomats. Gold was needed, yes, but… of all the needs he and his brother had listed it was still the least. Odin had wealth, hateful as he would find the parting with it, and others owed debts to one brother or the other. Worst to worse, Thor knew some of the hoards where the mortal ‘villains’ hid wealth. Anything Thor knew one of Loki knew a thousand.

“Arms, because unlike some” (and here, for cause Thor did not understand, Loki glared at the man named Fury) “I will not send my warriors out underprepared. Land because?” Loki’s shoulders rose beneath his heavy cape. “Well, everyone must be somewhere.”

“How about back where you came from?” Fury asked. “Since you assured us Odin is backing this.”

“To stage on Asgard would be uncomfortable both physiologically and politically.”

Loki shifted to his blue form.

The air in the room chilled in more than the mere political sense.

“Bad enough that I come flanked by…”

“Brother?” Did Loki resent him even now, even after all the oaths of love he had given?

“Peace. Dear Thor. I speak only of perceptions.” Loki’s smile was rich with reassurance. Thor was wise enough, experienced enough, to know that might mean nothing. He found himself comforted anyway.

Loki shifted back to his common form. “It is bad enough that I keep Odin’s son closest at my side. But that is alliance. A status of value to both kingdoms. To have Odin himself over my head? That would smack of slavery.”

A few nods around the room, from the geekier looking of the suits and older of the SHIELD agents. Also – and should this surprise him? – from the Widow.

“If the Jotun are content to be slaves?” Loki’s smile was artfully rueful. “Helblindi is closer at hand.”

“Gold?” Fury had Loki’s written demands before him, and had done some math on his pocket device. At the result he was looking… less disgruntled than was his norm. “Not a problem. I’ll take it out of Stark’s slush fund.”

Slush? Thor thought. That is a form of ice. Have these agents had prior dealing with the giants? Odin would have done well to keep closer watch on the humans, not leave them while he dreamed away centuries. When his oath to his brother had been fulfilled, perhaps it would be best to spend some time among the mortals of this realm. As the bards wrote: 

_Herds untended wild wander,  
reckless running, staff sundering. _

“Hey.” Tony snapped back, pulled from whatever quiet conference he was having with Clint Barton. “I don’t have a slush fund!”

“Stark!” Fury snapped. “You are a slush fund.”

“Arms?” One of the suits was looking more confused than befitted a courtier, at his own list. “That’s going to be…”

“Stark’s burden.” Loki cut off the man. “That is why I required his presence.”

At Tony Stark’s bristled outrage Loki added. “Did you think I merely longed for your sweet-tongued companionship?”

“I’m out of the weapons business.”

Thor frowned. Why did his friend speak so harshly? True, he had battled with Loki, but no more than he himself had taken blows, and of the two the Man of Iron had been injured least. Indeed, in the last encounter Stark had offered toasts of sweet wine with his battle. Why should he sound so bitter now, when offered gift for gift?

“You are willing to build for Clint Barton, or for the Lady Natasha.”

“That’s different, Thor. They’re…”

“What sort of arms?” Natasha again.

“Hey!” Stark looked from her, to Loki, then back over his shoulder to her. “Are you negotiating on his side or mine?”

“That depends.”

Thor noted she did not say upon what. Wise and artful. The Widow was a most formidable opponent in these verbal sparings.

“Swords. Spears.” Loki plucked the paper from one of the nearer Midgardians – the one sitting to Thor’s left - and floated it over to the woman. 

Thor watched Natasha read it carefully before passing it on to Stark.

He gave it no more than a glance, preferring to tap at his computer device.

Thor was disappointed. He had thought, from their time in arms, that Stark would be more gracious when not at war. Was he not one of the noble-born of this planet? Was he not a hall-lord of fame? A gold-giver? Perhaps this ill-showing was the source of the Lady Pepper’s wrath.

Brought here, Stark did not act like a courtier of Asgard. He offered respect to neither Loki nor to Fury, but rather clustered with his own people like a pig-boy with his pen.

“I have no time to train warriors, not with the Red-skulled Sorcerer pressing Helblindi to ever rasher action.” Loki gave his explanation to the room. “It shall be enough that I arm those of the Jotun nobles who will accept my welcome. For swords I need steel, which is rarely forged on Jotunheim. For spears I need hard wood, which is rarer yet.”

Rare for Loki, at least. Thor tried to remember all his brother had shown him of the map. Helblindi’s march to the south might be to claim more than the seaports. What wood Jotunheim had grew in the southern mountains. The sea plants grew wind-twisted, and those of the northern slopes gained little length if they survived at all.

Niflhelheim had less, although for love of her father Hel might surrender that little she had. Muspellheim had nothing. All growth burned there as soon as it was past the growing green. Even Asgard produced more stone than wood.

Tony Stark was half-standing now, one hand gripping the table edge. “For those, you don’t need the Merchant of Death.”

“To get those from the dwarf smiths I need time, which no man nor god can buy.”

“To get them here you need AMEX.”

Natasha pulled Stark back to his chair. He settled with ill grace.

“Well, unless you want exotic alloys like Clint uses, in which case you need time and AMEX.”

“What about this?” The Black Widow flipped a blade. It landed inches before Loki, point stuck between his pastry and coffee cup.

Now Stark was all attention – but not to Loki. (Which he should be. Loki was a king! Thor was quickly losing all regard for Midgardian child rearing.)

“Was that in your costume? How did you get that in your costume? Show me where…”

“A fine blade,” Loki tested it on his finger. The cut was sharp, raising a single drop of blood. “Small, but…”

“We can get it upsized.”

“We can? Can we do that? And who…”

“Do so.” Loki commanded.

“Again I ask. Whose side are you on?”

“Mine, Stark.” Fury held out his hand for the knife. “Any objections?”

“Infinite in variety.”

“Here.” Reaching between the two men, Natasha had snatched the ever-present tablet from Starks hand. She handed it to one of the suits, who in turn handed it to Loki. When it goes by Thor he can see the header is marked _Scots Broadswords_.

The central picture showed a man pulling metal from a forge. To the side another man hammered a blade. The workshop wall behind them was hung heavily with tools and finished weapons.

Loki moved his finger up and down, causing the sword pictures to show their details. 

From his vantage at his brother’s back Thor could see they were solid weapons. Somewhat plainer than the dwarf smiths might forge, lacking the gold hilts and gems of a court blade, but worthy crafting for all that. 

“Yes. These should suffice, although I shall need more than the four pictured.

“They sell them by the dozen.” The man to the left pointed to the top of the screen.” “Look under wholesale orders.”

Thor watching warily, Loki made a careful poke at the glowing bit indicated.

The picture shifted to a different scene, one showing the same sorts of swords – each in rows of a hand or more - being packed into long wooden crates and marked for travel.

“Excellent.” Loki passed the device to Thor. “Have them prepared and sent to my quarters.”

He passed it over to Natasha. Even though he knew it was Tony’s, she had clearly made a prize of it.

“That’s it?” Stark was up again. “You’re going to line up and hit each other with sticks?”

“Swords.” Thor corrected.

“Swords. Sticks. What do you call this, a drug trip?”

Thor pulled himself to his full height. When, of what madness, had he thought his man gentle or called him shield-brother? “We shall call it a war, Man of Midgard. We shall march to Jotunheim, his thanes and my warriors, and Loki shall slay the false king and his útlagr rune-wielder, and…”

“What? Do what? Kill people and break things?” Stark, the churl, was laughing.

Worse, the Midgardian allies were smiling likewise, although modestly and behind raised palms.

“That is not how you win a war.” Tony Stark waved at Steve Rogers. “Cap. Tell Frosty here that is not how you win a war.”

The Captain of America was not smiling. Indeed, of all present he seemed least amused.

He stood, facing Loki. “That’s not how you win a war.”

“Most witty.”

“No. Really.” Rogers rested his shield on the table. “That is a great way to lose a war, and to get a lot of probably-innocent people killed in the process, but to win?”

“You have a better suggestion?”

Stark snorted. “Beyond suggesting that you listen to someone who knows something? Which- and it burns my soul a bit to say this- would be.” His smile grew wide, even as Thor’s frown deepened. “Sorry big guy, but, that would be pretty much anyone in this room who is not named Odinson.“

Bowing to the gathered Midgardian assembly Stark added. “Didn’t mean so suggest that you weren’t all incompetent paper-pushers who slept though the Clausewitz section of your International Relations classes, but given the apparent alternative? Which seems to be a hockey game with no ump?”

“You would ally with these battlers of paper over my Warrior’s Three?”

“Yeh. I would.” Stark’s lips twisted, as if he was eating sour loganberries. “Between these guys or a pack of really slow Renn Fairies? Sad thought the thought is? I’d go with them. Not that I wouldn’t prefer a regiment of Marines. Or, you know, Air Force. I’d even take Air Force. Coast Guard. WACS. Do they still have WACS?”

Thor felt his fingers curl around Mjolnir.

“You mock …”

“Talking serious business here, and I inherited an arms factory, not a kingdom.”

“You need a lot of skills in a military command.” Rogers began counting on his red-gloved fingers. “Tactics. Logistics. Operational overview. Situational awareness.”

“Three dimensional thinking”, Stark picked his repulsor glove. “Although that last might not matter so much if you’re going without air support.” He asked Loki, “Are we going without air support? Why are we going without air support? Because that strikes me as just… flat. Also. Don’t they have mountains in Asgard? I mean, even cave men understood high ground, right?”

“Force multiplication factors.” Fury was nodding, seemingly in agreement with something in Stark’s rant.

“Local guerillas, if you can get them.” Rogers added. ”Agit-prop operations to create support if you don’t have allies on the ground.”

“Forward recon.” Clint Barton peered over his bow. ‘Strike teams.”

“Internal intelligence operations. Wet work.” Black Widow lifted her hand to show the hidden weapons at her fingertips. “Subversion, decryption, misinformation.”

“All that and the pony.” Stark clapped mockingly as the rest of the Avengers gathered at his back. “Lots of things you want. But start with competent.”

“You call a Prince of…”

“Calm yourself, brother. They give good council… by their own lights. I have not yet decided how I will view it, but for now…”

_Wise is he who sweetly speaks.  
Wiser he who listens long.  
Many wield words, but few wits,  
As many wild waves fetch few fish. _

“What did he say? Did he just call me stupid?”

“Stark.” Fury sighed. “Nobody thinks you’re stupid. We just think you’re nuts.”

“Oh. That’s… OK.”

“You would have me consult a tactician of this land?” Loki stood, a mythic figure in the bland conference room. With a few complex gestures he drew runes in the air and commanded “Coulson!”

“What the hell?” Now it was the archer – Clint Barton – lunging forward.

His hand went though the black mist of Coulson’s spirit.

“Hel indeed. I said I had allies from the other realms.” Loki settled, waiting for his servant to reform. “Did you not think my own daughter would support me?”

“If he’s…”

“Why would…”

The babble in the room did not bother Loki, who focused only on the spirit. “Coulson! Speak the truth of this coming battle.”

“What you plan is a great way to lose a war. To get a lot of people killed, and lose.” Coulson’s voice was a wisp of cold in frozen air, audible only because the room had fallen silent.

“Hold on.” Fury leaned across the table, holding himself mere inches from the smoke that marked Coulson’s being. “He kills you, and how you’re giving him tacticals?”

“Sorry, Directory Fury.” For all the faintness, his voice had gained a dry confidence. “I’m somewhat dead here, and it limits my disinformation options.”

“Meaning he can not lie to me.”

Barton snarled.

The smoke of Coulson seemed to gel, growing somehow more solid.

Loki’s next gesture did not shift it. “So, Man of Midgard, what would you advise?”

“Stark’s at the table. If Helblindi is using spears – why aren’t you asking for Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles?”

“What?” Thor asked.

“That thing Fury’s not-so-friendly friends shot at us in New York. The thing I rode out of your rodeo. You remember? Big metal thing, trip to space, alien-fleet-go-bang? We earth types have lots of those.” Stark acted out the ‘bang’ with an empty coffee cup, smashing the end in a burst of noise and stray splatter. “Don’t ask. No. I’m not going to build any of those, no matter what Fury says. I don’t do war. Privatizing world peace, remember?”

“Your feigned scruples bother me not, Stark. Such weapons are forbidden.”

“What?” Coulson’s smoke twined in loops, as if there was some strong wind. “You’ve got some sort of SALT treaty?”

The mortals all looked at Loki, as if finding some wisdom.

Thor glared, angered again at their constant mockery. “What has a mineral to do with battle?”

“SALT stands for Strategic Arms…” Fury faltered - seeing his words meant nothing. “Oh, forget that. It’s an agreement not to use certain weapons.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

Well, Thor considered, Odin had agreed that the Jotun were not to have the Casket of Ancient Winters, but that was more a matter of Odin speaking and King Laufey having no choice. One could hardly say the dead king had agreed to the matter, except so far as there were moments – from time to time – when he was not actively trying to invade and reclaim it.

Now Odin had given the Casket to Loki, so even that not-agreement was vanished.

Loki had promised not to make war on Asgard, but… that was peace. What madness would it be to give blows, and then trust a foe to keep faith on what weapons might return those injuries?

To Stark he said none of this.

“We have no such treaties. It is only that they are forbidden.”

“And you won’t be getting MWD’s from me anyway.” Stark was snapping as much at Fury as at Loki. ‘Not…with Coulson dead there. I mean, were weren’t buds but…”

“We were.” Barton said.

The archer had come around the table – somehow – and stood closer than Thor found comfortable.

“Clint Barton.” Loki shifted, making space nearer to Coulson. “You are a warrior by trade. Surely you have lost comrades before.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Nothing makes war right. It does, however, make the events customary.”

“Kicking bad guy ass is also customary.”

That wasn’t quite a threat – not directly. Thor unlatched his hammer anyway. Just in case.

“Yet I would ask you to join me. To fight beside me as Coulson will.” 

“Don’t see why I’d do that.”

“You have not heard my offer.”

“Not a mercenary.” Baron glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry Fury. Not any more. Even for you.”

Thor wanted to slap the archer for his presumption. Did he not remember he spoke to a king?

Loki ignored Barton, focusing farther down the table.

“Captain Rogers. You feel I have injured your countrymen. Very well. For werield, I offer you Schmidt.”

Roger’s pulled back, hugging his shield to his chest. “I’ll second what Barton said. Not a mercenary.”

Fury shrugged. “Not my employee either.”

“Nor mine, by the way.”

“Ah. Anthony Stark. You still owe me. Or did you forget you promised a drink. Harsh hosting, when I have given you gifts.”

“I figured - about passing the thirty-fourth floor – that you’d turned me down.” Of all the Avengers, Stark along did not seem troubled. If anything, Thor would have thought him comforted by the battle of offers. “Sorry, Frost King. You can’t buy the Avengers with Vibranium.”

“Nor would I try. That barter is between your land and mine.”

“For you?” Loki’s smile was bright with teeth. “This is my oath to you. Back me with all your might, all your will, all your skill, and I in turn will give you a gift of value equal to the lost, and I shall do so before I first sit upon Jotunheim’s throne.

Barton plucked angrily at his bowstring. “And who gets to say when it’s enough?”

“Devil in the details, Loki.” Stark’s smile was the edge of a knife blade.

“Fair enough.” Loki looked from one avenger to the next, considering each in turn. “Barton shall be the judge.”

“Tough call. Sure you want to risk that?”

“You have no power to lie to me, archer.”

“Brother” Thor whispered, “Is this wise?”

“It is needful. Need is stronger than wisdom. But yes, Thor, in this and all things, do trust me.”

“Trust him, friend Barton.”

After a long long moment, Clint Barton held out his hand. “Deal.”

Loki took it in the Midgard custom. “Deal. So, Rogers?”

“Deal. For as long as you listen. I’ve served under idiots before but… yours isn’t my nation, and you’re not my moron. I mean President. Gen…whatever.”

“Lady Natasha?”

“I know who I work for. It isn’t you. But as long as SHIELD is on board with this?”

“We’d prefer Loki in Jotunheim.” Fury answered, his words even and careful. “He seems willing to go. I’d appreciate your help.”

The Black Widow held up her hand. “Deal.”

“Stark?” Fury prompted.

“Within reason? Reason being that Roger’s here is in charge and we’re not wiping out native populations just for giggles.”

Stark waited.

“Deal.” Loki allowed.

“Potential deal.”

Reaching equally over the table, they shook.

When Loki returned he sat lightly, but under the heavy fur cloak Thor could see his brother shaking the whiteness from near-crushed fingers. Stark had given truce, not love.

“So.” Loki waved, taking in first Thor, then Coulson, and last the Avengers. “I have the Drott of my army. Where shall I place my banner?”

“Land is?” The NSA guy was back again. “That could be a deal breaker.”

“Then the deal must be broken.” Coulson’s smoke formed a solid pillar. “Terrain trumps tactics.”

“Listen to your own man, Fury. I need refuge for my court, and space to arm them.”

“He’s right.” From his hand movements, Roger’s ‘he’ referred to Coulson more than Loki. “Asgard would not be healthy – not for ice people – and before we went to modern, controlled armies? Losses in camp were usually greater than losses in the field.”

“So you’re talking a staging ground?” Fury addressed the smoke, which nodded back. 

Thor thought it strangely reminiscent of the certain stillness the Son of Coul had possessed in his mortal form.

“What nation on earth is going to go for that?”

“Call it an embassy.” Coulson suggested.

“And what lucky sovereignty gets the booby prize?”

Hill moved to back up Fury. “I’d say Iceland, but they’ve already got one unstable volcano waiting to go. Plus there’s the risk that Loki might not leave.”

“Hill!”

“They like him there. He’s got fan clubs.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Sorry, Director. I can…”

“That was an order, Agent Hill. TELL ME YOU WERE JOKING.”

Hill snatched back her clipboard. ”Joking. Yes, sir.” 

As she passed, Thor heard her mutter, “just see if you get invited to the next blót. Grumpy pants.”

“What about the SI polar base?” one of the suits suggested. “Stark Industries doesn’t need it any more. I mean – they’ve found Rogers, and what’s left of the plane. Asgard has the Cosmic Cube. Tesseract. The base has become surplus, and… if you will excuse the pragmatism… NSA would like to get it off of our books.”

“Take it off the NSA books after Loki’s finished with it – not before. NSA covers their half of this.” Fury pulled up a map of the base on his pad. He passed that to Loki. “This work for you?”

“No.” Coulson answered. “Too public.”

“At the North POLE?”

“Directly under the circumpolar hop from New York to Reykjavík, with every plane from New York to Heathrow flying over?”

“Coulson’s right, Director.” Hill’s eyes added the unspoken ‘like always’. “Once Loki’s spotted? Even if we classify operation details we’ll be chasing off every news crew on earth.”

“Plus Google Maps, Yahoo, Bing, MapQuest,” Barton ticked off the options.” StarkMap & Starkphone. Stark’s going global satellite coverage over six continents at the end of this week.” 

“Stark. You could pull out.”

“I could promise to pull out, but would you trust me?” 

Stark’s tone made it a joke. Something cultural, since Thor missed the meaning.

“Actually? Stark raise his donut in mocking toast. “I couldn’t. Pulling out would leave Pepper… dissatisfied.”

Another cultural joke, evidently. Probably less polite, as Barton was snickering while the Black Widow seemed displeased.

“Pepper’s CEO of Stark Industries now, and you know how she gets about a hard contract.”

“I know the meaning of non-disclosure. As does Ms. Potts.”

“Director?” Agent Hill was back. “Difficult as it is for me to concede this? Stark is right. If we plunk a pack of Viking Giants onto Nunavut? It’ll be Disney on Ice.”

Disney? That land Thor had learned of on his last visit to Midgard, but why should a Kingdom of Magic be unwelcoming to his sedir brother? Should they not rather entreat the ruler thereof to be their friend? Would not they find fair welcome at Sleeping Beauty’s castle? Would not the seven famed dwarfs gift them with gems from their mine? Surely a land so well-sung could not be ruled by an evil witch?

“Antarctica.” The word floated on a breeze as chill as the land it suggested.

“Coulson?”

“Non national management. Not earth-national. You can call it a joint scientific and training exercise.”

“And just not say who with?” Fury smiled. “Coulson. Welcome back. I’ve missed the way you think.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This darn thing keeps growing.
> 
> Like all military budgets. :-)

“Jarvis. Make note. Crampons for the Iron Man boots.”

Not that Tony Stark was wearing his armor. A pity, Loki thought. Without the bright red and gold metal only his voice rendered the man distinguishable from the other huddles of fur and nylon clambering down the airplane ramp.

That, and the way he broke ranks, leaving the others to unload cargo while Stark made his unsteady way over the pack ice towards Loki and his court. 

“Crap this place is cold.” Stark thrust out one gloved hand. “I mean – I’ve slept in ICEHOTEL in Jukkasjärvi, and compare to that… this place is fucking cold.”

Stark did have a talent for irrelevant verbosity. So much like Volstag in that matter. No wonder Thor was strangely fond of the man, when the blond oaf had little admiration for the general class of crafters. Loki’s opinion, on the other hand? Well, Loki had – as yet – no firm opinion. In general he held the opposite views of his brother – valuing artisans and disliking blowhards – but Stark had not yet resolved into more the one or the other. Nor, in truth, did it matter. Other, perhaps, then that matters would be easier if Stark admired Loki. Count that as a lost opportunity. How furunate at court manners covered the ground of ‘friendships’ with those by whom one was plalusably dispised.

But yes, Loki granted. This area was cold. Loki himself had been… not forced… for he was never forced… but ‘motivated’ to take on his Jotun form.

“You don’t like my throne room?” He forced a wide smile. Not trying for a convincing mask. Stark was no fool, and … close enough to Loki in spirit that the man would enjoy the masquerade more then an elusion of truth. “I suppose it does lack your favored colors. I find it offers a certain… naïf charm. Minimalist. But I suppose we can redecorate.”

Loki strode ahead, leaving Stark shielded between Björn Kló and Ólmast Pækillson until they reached the stillness inside the ice dwelling.

Stark shouted behind Loki, “As long as you don’t get bored and decide to renovate New York.”

That again? The mortal was still grousing over his miserable lump of a tower? “I have burdens enough finding quarters for the few who have fled Helblindi over the merchant paths.”

Loki found himself speaking more truth then he would have preferred. Most of the site had been in ruins when the Helicarrier had brought Loki here, Antarctic winters having cracked foundations and torn roofs. New structures were going up, but those were Jotun constructions of ice and stone. Mostly ice.

This main hall shared a foundation with the Quonset hut which had once housed research equipment, devices for recording the weather over the long dark months of southern winter, but now only one steel wall remained, holding the room’s single door. The other walls, little more that crumpled memories of structure, had been repurposed into roofs or windbreaks for smaller structures.

Rough benches lined the walls, seating for the long table that filled the center of the room. One chair – the only bit of carpentry, and that only if you discounted the craft into a mere definition of wood and nails – served as high seat and qualified the space as a court. That, and the fact that it was Loki’s, and Loki was and would be King.

“My mad brother continues to offend any who is forced to suffer his rule.” Loki waited until all were inside, then signaled the two giants standing guard to brace the door shut behind them. “And Helblindi also loses his citizens to my camp.”

“Yeh. I got a look as we flew in. Look like a healthy bunch. And, you know, HUGE. Fricking HUGE.” Stark thrust out his arms, spreading the sides of his parka to indicate the Jotun mass. Layered as he was, the impression was more one of bolsters than of bulk.

“Mostly farmers and fishermen. Refugees from the southern coastline, fleeing the mad wizard’s mad law.” Small creatures, little taller than Loki himself, although rough work in heavy seas had given them Thor’s shoulder line. “They are not the class of which we make warriors.”

“Yeh. Well we do make soldiers out of farm kids – and it works out pretty well. Remember Cap?”

“Oh yes – your ‘kid from Brooklyn’. Coulson was… eager… to recount all of his glories.” Plus, being less a xenophobe than Thor, Loki had used his newly gifted StarkPad to watch sundry short visuals of the American warrior. There had been many, from short and shaky phone clips taken of Loki’s last visit to Midgard to longer (and clearer) narratives with the taste of a saga about them. Those last he might discount – as he did all brags of bards weaving word-fame – but he did not doubt that the Captain had been a formidable drang. 

“Only one of Cap – but over a million men live in Brooklyn. And that’s just one borough out of five. So… you figure.”

Indeed. Roger’s shiled brothers were proving fair warriors now, training the rabble of refugees who had wandered the worlds towards Loki’s camp. To Loki, it was as much a favor in keeping the masses quiet as any hope of turning them into battle troops, but the folk following Fury thought strongly otherwise.

Loki now suspected there had been significant gaps in his briefing for the previous fólkvangr. A small part, in the back of his mind, wondered if that was ignorance, or intent. Had he been sent to fail? Later, he comforted himself, MUCH later and in times when Loki was a much greater power in the universe, he would have to… discuss… the question with Thantos. Briefly.

“Speaking of which? How are your troops doing with the new equipment?”

Stark had taken the passing minutes to unload Ólmast Pækillson – the warrior who had been serving as pack-mule for Stark’s bags – was now unsnapping and unclasping the heavy polymer cases. Bits of odd machinery littered the table top, linked with cables in bright red and yellow.

“Very well.” Very, very, surprisingly well. At that the pleasure in Loki’s voice was genuine. He recalled that discussion, the end of his last meeting with Stark.

Björn had been the image of proud youth, proclaiming “A Jotun goes naked into battle”.

To which Stark, with his usual cultural sensitivity, had responded, “fuck that for a game of ice hockey,” and snatched the drawing pad out of his companion – Rogers – hand and begun designing.

Loki doesn’t know if fighting bare is tradition, or just that the Jotun couldn’t afford dwarven steel. He doesn’t care either. His troops will go in wearing the best gear Stark Industries can provide.

“Your swords are mighty.” Ólmast grunts his approval. He has shaken free of the straps and taken his place beside Loki.

“The steel shirts are most wondrous,” Björn agrees, “although they do tend to grow warm if the struggle is lengthy.” He raises a length of chain mail, showing the flattened bits where friction melted the ice-cover of his chest.

Even in the dim light filtering though the ice roof the injury is clear.

“Ouch. Got some epi-lady action going with the rug. NOT good” Stark’s mittened hands slap his own chest, as if to protect something there. “Maybe a gel-pack type tee-shirt?”

Oh no. This is no time for devising.

“Do that later.” Loki thinks, do it in your own land and at the inconvenience of your own housecarls. But – yes – he realizes with a second thought –Stark must do it. “But do it swiftly. What bothers these southern troops will be burden for the northern clans.”

“More drang will come from the north, once the sea ice breaks.” Björn assures Stark. 

Reassures himself, Loki considers. Yet the youth is right. Allies will come from the northlands. They must, if Loki is to have a throne built of more than frost and fable.

“Once the news from the south breaks though the glacier barrier.” His answer is for himself as much as for his men. We wait, but we are wise to wait. Each day makes him the weaker and brings me more. Some come now but for each a hundred will come later, once the paths have been opened and marked.”

“Speaking of which?” Stark makes an elaborate show of pushing a button. “How does this sound?

“I hear nothing.”

Ólmast Pækillson shakes his heavy blue head.

Björn Kló likewise.

“Now?” Stark has pushed back his hood and has one end of head phones pressed to his ear. His free hand dances over a spread of dials and switches, shifting and adjusting in a pattern equal parts scattered and intense.

His eyes are locked on Loki.

“Still nothing.” Loki answers. Concern is a twisted thing under his chest-gems. What should he hear? If something has gone wrong this soon in the plan, if something is ruined that he can not repair, if he has miscalculated in calling upon Midgard then… then….

“Excellent!” Tony Stark jumps like a child at the winter games. “Stark-Sonar is a go!”

“I had expected no less.” Stark does better when praise is… indirect. This also he may share with Loki… although they have come to the trait from different trainings. Stark from being over-praised in youth. Loki – he knows himself this well – from being praised to little or – when he was – for the wrong virtues.

Ólmast-thegn, see that these…” Loki indicates the clusters of arcane technology “are made ready at the portal point.”

The older giant bows, obeying.

“Björn-himthiki”, he commands, “Inform the skeppare that Operation Sjávarströnd is - in the worlds of our Midgardian allies - good to go.”

The young giant departs in a flurry of furs. His new authority sits well on him.

Loki knows Stark is telling himself it’s not weaponry – and Loki isn’t telling him any different – even though the professionals all know that it’s material as much as ordinance that wins the war.

This first step – the one Loki would not even have thought of or find important if he had known it possible – this will mark the path that can only have one end. 

As Stark stomps out, Loki offers, “You have my thanks.”

“You’ll have my bill.”

They are both lying – and truthful in that both admit it.

Not that Loki will not pay – pay high – for all the materials being expended in this slow set-up to invasion.

He will need to. Development alone is probably costing Stark a fortune.

Loki pulls his white furs tighter, watching the human depart.

The wars of the Asir are a matter of swords and horses (goats, if you are the idiot who is Thor) and a morning march over the Bifrost. Midgard makes war slowly. They do battle with endless lists of foods and goods, with maps and plans and debates over the night temperature and the phases of the moon.

Loki doesn’t give a crap about that.

Nor – for that matter – does Stark.

Except that Stark is the master of building things to match those plans. That makes him priceless to Loki. Literally. He has no limit to what he will pay if he must, because without Stark he has no chance.

Which is dangerous.

Except that Stark needs Loki, and needs him in the same boundless way.

Loki has the Vibranium. ALL the vibranium. And that makes it worth whatever it needs to be worth.

Stark doesn’t really need the metal. He can, in small quantities and at great expense, create his own. He can survive without Loki’s gifts, if survive means survive as Loki can survive without a throne. Loki can live until the death of the world-tree as the second changeling prince of an alien court. So Stark wants, but does not need. As Loki wants but does not need. Except at the point where Stark needs all the toys. Which is… always.

Loki can respect that.

And Stark will come out with a profit. Because that it part of winning and… Stark always wins.

That’s the thing Loki admires – and hates – most about the man.

Because Loki? Loki burns with the same self-fed fire. And Loki has not won. Not YET.

If they don’t destroy each other in a massive emo conflagration, Loki suspects they will end up the closest of friends.

Actually – even if they do destroy each other.

For beings such as they are destruction and affection are not mutually exclusive.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tactical geekiness and the planet's largest information dump.  
> Sorry.
> 
> War isn't hell. War is paperwork. (But paperwork is hell. :-p)

“Blonsky.” A very very tall figure held out his hand.

The Abomination. Proof Fury was a size queen. Rumor was he’d be hot to get the man from General Ross since the first days of the Avengers Initiative. Banner had filled that spot instead, but clearly Fury was taking this operation as a chance to collect the full set.

Clint just hoped this set of collectables didn’t end up blood spattered. Not like certain other’s he could name.

“Barton” Clint slid off his own outer mitten long enough for a brief grip. “How was your flight?”

“We got here.”

Bad, then. Expected. Usually they evaced the WAIS divide and shut down the inland camps far earlier in the winter season.

He couldn’t see Blonsky’s face behind the knit balaclava, but tone alone told him this was not the man’s happy day.

No surprise there.

Barton counted over the mixed gaggle of snow suited men huddled behind the ice wall. Soldiers all, from the files he’d read over before this meeting. Not the best so much as the best that could be gathered on short notice. Five services (yes, they’d pulled a celestial navigator off of the Coast Guard) plus a few of his own unofficial ‘alterative weapons’ trainees from SHIELD. Plus one from… was Emil Blonsky still a British Royal Marine?

“Packs came in.” Blonsky indicated the pile of dark gray nylon growing by the door. “From Stark.”

“Stark better have packed more than warm socks.” This place was cold enough to send his balls looking for hand warmers – and rumor was this camp, with it’s 50 below weather and gale winds, was summer camp compared to Jotunheim. Supposedly everyone on the list to go had something – magic or meta or just major training – that would give them a chance at survival. What Fury thought Barton had? He’d figure that out as he went along. Like always.

“Stark has brought me many things, Archer.” A too-familiar voice echoed in his memory. “Now I bring them to you.”

“Loki.” Barton hated the way he still jumped when that …. Demigod… came up behind him.

Loki marched in with his usual oversized pomp. He was looking a bit blue, but otherwise? Loki was Loki – a face that C. Barton would remember in his nightmares.

He had the kid Bjorn with him, and two other frosty types who hadn’t yet been introduced. They were looking a bit freaked around the edges. Yeh well. Barton figured he would too if he was on an alien planet talking to an alien army and planning the invasion of his home world. (And hey – if anyone should know what that felt like?)

“Majesty.” Blonsky didn’t sound any more impressed, just slightly better trained. The word came out in the same tone as that he used for ‘Major’ – or even ‘Private’.

“Target one.” Loki didn’t bother with introductions, or with much courtesy. They knew each other already, and no one on any side was changing their opinion of the other.

A long block of ice formed a sort of table down the center of the chamber. Loki rolled out his map, a battered thing of skin and flaking paints.

Several of the watching crew, especially the Coast Guard guy, let their snorts express their opinions of the thing. And yes, by any decent printing standards it was crap. Didn’t mean it wasn’t accurate. 

Barton met Blonsky’s eyes and got the same look back. Right. They’d both worked with worse.

Loki’s finger left a glowing green circle on the maps painted line. “I know of a portal – a back passage in the limbs of the Yggdrasil - that will let a troop out here.”

“Pretty far into the boonies.” Blonsky leaned closer. “How are we supposed to get to… “ He let one orange finger hover over the Jotun capitol.

“You aren’t.” Loki turned the map so the upper coastline was closet to the other man. “This is a tactical beachhead. And?” Loki sent a bare nod Barton’s way. “ Something of an intelligence gathering operation.”

Yeh. Like those two go well together… like never. If Loki wanted him dead (and he should – because Barton sure wanted Loki on a slab) he had maneuvered a pretty fair shot at doing just that.

Blonsky - being either damn lucky or supernaturally perceptive (or just up with the gossip) stepped between them. “With your Majesty’s permission?”

“Your command,” Loki stepped back, indicating the table – and the floor – was the other man’s.

Blonsky spread his own map. It was the same map that Loki used, save that it had been scanned, printed, and plastic coated. That last meant he could draw on it with things a bit more practical than magic pixi dust.

“Our primary task will be special materials deployment.”

Meaning Loki – or maybe Fury – had finally talked Stark out of some serious tech. 

“Team one will establish a base here – at the most stable part of the glacial plane. Set up power and communications. C5I. We’ve got what we think is a gate detector.”

Yep. What he’s thought. Stark had turned over the toys and it was playtime all over.

“Think?” Barton asked. That was never a good word when applied to new equipment.

One of the other men answered. Barton recognized him as one of Selvig’s techs. “We know it will spot the Bifrost. We hope it will spot smaller gates, like the ones we’ll be using, but…. That’s harder to test.”

Right. Since only Jane Foster had managed to establish an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, and that only twice now. Not exactly a track record you wanted to bet your ass on. But – oh yeh – Barton was doing just that. With Bat-Shit Loki and the Blue Meanies as the back-up team.

He’d say ‘kill me now’ except Loki would probably do it.

“Vital,” Loki directed. “I must know if Schmidt is likewise seeking allies.”

Barton wanted to snap back ‘who’d work with a Nazi’, except experience showed the answer was ‘any greedy bastard who thought it would bring him five bucks or five minutes of power’. And wasn’t that a shit view on human nature. Jotun nature. Whatever. This gig was ruining StarTrek memories.

Team two.” Blonsky addressed a different huddle of men. “You’ll move along the coast, planting sonar and radar where you can. Give us early warning of any movement by sea.” He drew squares around several of the spots Loki had also indicated. “We’ll build supply depots here and here, where the Yggdrasil route passes.”

“Luggage for a long stay?” Maybe the frost giants could take over, although? Barton remembered the kid saying that even his folks wouldn’t stay over the winter season. Meaning humans wouldn’t stand a chance. If Loki was playing Napoleon in his own personal battle of Moscow?

Blonsky must have had the same thoughts, because he quickly added. “We don’t expect the a long conflict, but…”

“Better to have and not need than need and not have,” Barton finished.

Björn Kló smiled in brilliant agreement. “ Such are the teachings of your drott General-Patton.”

Someone had been slipping the kid History Channel links. Barton wasn’t sure if that was going to make the kid Stormin’ Norman or get him off’d like Rommel. Whichever, right now Loki seemed impressed with the kid.

“It will give us an entry point if my brother’s woman can’t get the Bifrost working.”

“Also an exit point.” Blonsky clearly remembered Dunkirk. Well, remembered stories of Dunkirk. Close enough. “While not a primary objective, we will also map out the Vígahnöttur range, and locate any significant resources.”

“Hvísl málmur.” Björn mutters.

“Vibranium,” Blonsky translates. 

And wasn’t that just great. Clean energy, and he still ends up fighting a war for oil.

The blue king looks over the troops under Blonsky’s command.

“Hvísl málmur would be Schmidt’s primary target, yes, so it’s going to be one of yours.” Loki answers the unspoken (but fiercely felt) questions. “Such weapons will serve you as well, so you would be wise to find Stark his metal.”

“That answers for them. Why am I invited to this dance?” Barton had grown restless waiting, and patience out of the field had never been his virtue.

Loki smiled, thin and bitter. “I have a special task for you.”

He’d figured as much since Bjorn had come to his quarters with the funky fur tunic and the long bow.

Nice kid, Björn, even if he did have somewhat soppy ideas about Loki. But then, he’d just seen his entire family slaughtered. Being orphaned could make a kid cling, even to total bastards.

Maybe he’d wise up later. Clint could convince Fury to give Björn a place with SHIELD. Not the Avengers – not unless Tony moved the tower WAY north – but.. hey… Iceland needed a superhero. Right? And then he – Clint – could shoot Loki with a clear conscience.

In the mean time? 

“Which is?” Barton did his best to sound indifferent.

A too familiar voice answered from just over his left shoulder. “You’re the one there for the intelligence, Barton, rarely though those two words are used together.”

“Coulson!” Even as a black smudge, the man generated a sense of presence, an aura of being the most focused mind in the room. “You’re back?” He was really back? Even as a smudge of smoke – which wasn’t all that good a look – it was still very much Coulson.

“I’m your handler, of course.” 

And didn’t that just say it all, in far too few words.

Björn Kló moved closer, taking the map from Blonsky’s hands. He turned it so Colson could see clearly. “In the cove of Ofsaveður near the mountain Vígahnöttur I left a seksring – a small boat with a sail. Save ill weir, it should be their still.”

At Colson’s question – and it is a whisp of smoke but it is clearly also somehow a question – the young frost giant adds. “No good man would touch the boat of another, and all the bad men are in Jötnarhöll looting the kingdom. They have no need for such small booty.”

Which – Barton figured - put the Jotun one up on New Yorkers. There were bums downtown that would steal a tow truck just to steal a junker that wouldn’t start. (He knew this for a fact. He’d lost a surveillance car that way, back in his training days.)

“Sail here, to the small crofts.” Coulson spun tendrils of darkness over the map. “There your special skills are required.”

“Archery?”

“Juggling.” Björn answered. “And Colson- draugur says you can sing, a little.”

“You are to gather what intelligence you can. Feel out the mood of the common people. Listen to how they respond to any new laws Helblindi has placed upon them. Do not risk discovery. I would not lose you.”

And wow – wasn’t that just a kick in the balls.

Like they weren’t pretty much hitting ‘lost’ already.

“And watch your careless tongue.” Loki added. “Do not let them suspect you come from Midard.”

“Hello! You think their not going to notice I’m sorta short?” Barton waved his hand over his own head – then at the same level nearer Blue-Loki’s chin. “Not to mention pink?”

“That I can alter.”

A flash a blue light – always spooky – and Barton realized he was no longer cold. Also no longer pink. (Beige – but whatever.)

“And they won’t suspect this?” He shook the bow the frost giants had supplied earlier, bringing a crude clatter of flint arrowheads on bone bow-tips. “I mean, maybe Helblindi isn’t expecting trouble, but Red Skull has to be sensibly paranoid. ”

“The bow is not a weapon of war, but rather of hunting,” Björn assured him earnestly. “Not that there is any shame in it. It is only that most do not have the time to build such skills.”

“Great. I’d hate to insult the Jotun by killing them with a rude weapon.”

The young giant slumped, relief evident in every bone. “Most nobly put, Auga-Haukur.”

“Coulson will travel with you.” 

With these words Loki handed over a strange pendant hanging on a leather cord. It was carved from bone – as many Jotun ornaments seemed to be. If he had to describe it, Barton would have called the figure a cross between a spider and a snake – with added teeth for that special touch of nasty. The only thing keeping it from Renn-trash category was the glowing stone in the center. Blue. It had to be freaky-magic blue. He was really really starting to hate that color.

Barton slipped the gem under his shirt.

When he did, the shade – Coulson – slid into the shirt as well.

Kinky - he thought.

Also chilly – but… if that was what it took? He’d take cold Coulson over a hot babe any day. Sexual innuendo most definitely intended.

Loki snarled. “Do NOT lose him.”

“Trust me. I won’t.”

“He won’t,” Coulson echoed.

Oh he would not. He so would not.

“I should be reasonably safe.” Coulson contributed, speaking from the space behind Barton’s left ear. “Schmidt – or officially Helblindi - has been killing off unaligned magic users. That lowers the chance that we’ll run into anyone who can spot me, much less exorcise me.”

“Good.” Barton responded automatically. Then. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t Helblindi killing off bards too?”

Loki shrugged. “Only when he finds them.”

“In the villages it is unlikely that any will act against you.” Björn’s expression – all earnest reassurance – looked odd on his icy features. “A Jongleur is in some wise sacred.

“Still, it would be best if you spoke only to friendly villagers.”

“Good suggestion. How will I know if they are friendly?”

Loki shrugged again. “If they kill you? They were probably Helblindi’s men.”

“And that “– Barton whispered to his passenger - “is why everyone loves Team Loki.”

“Which brings up?” Blonsky pushed forward. “How long are we supposed to wait around for these guys?”

“You stay as long as the weather allows - if you pass undetected.” 

“And if we don’t? Because Schmidt is going to have his own ears on the ground.”

“Right. And the nasty Nazi isn’t on record as the sort to let good tactics get in the way of ego. If he spots us, he’s coming after us.” Not that Barton didn’t trust Coulson to pull him out of any situation. The man had more then proved himself in the field, and death didn’t seem to be slowing him down. But … this was one insertion running a long LONG way from any extraction team.

“I would not fear him. Sjávarströnd is – as you say – a long way from Jötnarhöll. Overland to Skriðjökullfjord, where the rime giants love him now. Then two sea voyages to land at Ofsaveður. Then the mountain march over Vígahnöttur to your base.” Loki’s finger left runes over the map as he listed each marker. “Such a trip would take many weeks to make. A quicker march would exhaust his army.” He turned away. “If the Norns bless us, we will have met him in the south before then.”

“And if these Norns aren’t so hot for us?” Blonsky pulled the map back. “What do we do if his tired army gets there?”

Which Barton thought was one damn good question. Because yes, they had the only range weapons. And as weapons went, bows could have a good range. But these weren’t good bows, and the guy on Blonsky’s team weren’t really good archers. Just semi-competent grunts who could be trusted to not do more harm to themselves than if they were left bare-handed.

Loki shot a ‘you moron’ look over his shoulder. “Obviously. Leave.”

“We do all this just to pack up and skedaddle?”

“Or, if you wish, you could die.”

*~*

“Harsh.” Barton caught up with Loki outside of the staging room The wind was rising, countering the drop in light as the sun set early. In the echoes, he wasn’t sure he could be heard – or if he honestly wanted to be.

“Needful.” Loki did not turn or slow his steps. “Unless you think that, like some of your earth gods, I seek sacrifices.”

The Asir – Jotun - was nearly back to his hall before Barton heard him again. “Be wary, Auga-Hauku

_“From words men drink courage  
As cattle crop murrains  
Both kill in ill seasons.”_

“They would be heroes for you, but for me? For an alien prince? They will be cautious.”

A good point, Barton realized. Making Loki… not the worst senior officer he’d ever had to deal with. Which – along with Coulson being on board - pretty much decided it. He’d follow Loki’s orders until the war was over. THEN he’d shoot the bastard.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay frosty, Schmidt.

The sky was still bright when the gate guards announced Klaki-thegn’s arrival. Strangely early. Looking down, Johann Schmidt could see the creature’s ice skin was unmarred, his furs unspotted with the blood of battle. Yet? He also lacked the terrified posture that would best suit one required to report a defeat at the cold hands of peasants and fishermen.

By the time Schmidt and his servants had made their way down the ice stairs, the Frost Giant Captain was bowing before the throne. His spear – hung with gold tokens of past victories – glittered in the flickering light of the wick-lamps.

“Hail! Helblindi-King.”

He got no response. Naturally. 

Schmidt made a note to punish the sentries. They should have sent warning before Klaki Borgarísjakison and his officers came so close.

“The king sleeps.” Schmidt cut between Klaki and Helblindi. “Report to me.”

One of Klaki’s drang elbowed forward. “You are not…”

Schmidt frowned.

A flash of red light enveloped the offender.

The rest of Klaki’s men fell back.

Schmidt pushed forward. “Report! How went the battle? Did you take the Stjörnuhrap fields?”

Klaki resolutely kept his eyes on the throne. “We took the ice fields, Rauður Höfuðkúpa. As for battle? There were… there were none to oppose us.”

“They surrendered?” Schmidt felt his lips crack up at the corners. What unexpected good news! Perhaps past experience had led him to underestimate his own capabilities. Perhaps this time his domination of the untermensch would proceed without the petty annoyances of over-dressed super-soldiers and snotty inventors.

“They… vanished.”

Schmidt raised his hand.

The Jotun soldiers ducked.

“How could they know their danger? Did I not … I mean… did not your König command you to move silently?”

Klaki nodded, his face still on the throne but one eye nervously tracking Schmidt’s servants. “Héla-thegn found some boys set to watching from the crags over Dokumóðavanger. He slew them as ordered. But somehow when we came to Stjörnuhrap and looked for the hall? All were gone.”

“We captured a peasant.” From the tone used, Schmidt took the captured creature to be one of the ice-dwellers and likely half an outlaw. “He swore all had been there the night before. Sykurhjúpa Vindur and his housekarls and all the folc.”

“You did not find this story… strange? To be gathering so many men if Sykurhjúpa had no warning?”

“It was a feast.”

“Feast? You tell me Sykurhjúpa held ein feast? Why – tell me this – would Sykurhjúpa think to hold ein feast in these times?”

“He had a bard.”

“Oh. Ein bard. He had ein bard. You did not think that maybe this bard – this bard that YOU let travel though my… though King Helblindi’s territory – you did not think that this bard would TALK to Sykurhjúpa! Would warn him!?”

“How could this bard sing of our coming?” The soldier at Klaki’s left answered. “ He did not know of our intent! If he had, still he could not have warned Sykurhjúpa. I swear – my men did not let any pass.”

Schmidt recognized the speaker as the careless Héla, the fool who had evidently missed the real sentry while wasting his men slaughtering children. Not that the Rime brats were any loss, but the distraction of their deaths had clearly allowed some more seasoned watcher to pass the picket line.

Fools!

Had he not warned them that the lesser races could be vicious?

You swear?” The familiar red rage rose behind his eyes. “Your oath is worthless.” Grabbing the King’s spear, Schmidt gutted the offender. “I, on the other hand, always keep my word.“

At least, Schmidt thought, when it came to punishments.

Stepping over the groaning Ice Giant, Schmidt continued. “No matter. We have the Stjörnuhrap lands.” He dismissed Klaki-thegn with a wave. “Send a new captain with a thousand slaves to work the ice fields. They will not do so as efficiently as Sykurhjúpa’s thrall’s might have – but if they wish to eat they will do it as well.”

The soldiers bowed and left, dragging the unfortunate Héla with them.

The disgraced soldier would likely live, Schmidt thought. These ice creatures were hard to kill. Likely for the best. Not that Schmidt - or rather his current puppet’s treasury – couldn’t afford the death-price. But? The court would expect Helblindi to show some interest in the judgment, and it was difficult to animate die dunkelblaue these days.

Behind Schmidt’s back, one heavy blue arm creaked upwards.

“Now… Now…” Helblindi’s voice was a thin crack of breaking ice. “Now you will return the Casket?”

“Not quite yet, my frosted ally. There are a few more things I require of your reich before I am quite done with this realm.”

Things which might be easer to come by than the Dark One’s had supposed, if all the Jotun were likewise inclined to take flight rather than fight. Still, the circumstances were odd, and odd events were better understood than ignored. 

Schmidt summoned one of his own men, commanding the giant to dispatch several covert agents to the ice lands, just in case this ‘victory’ was other than Klaki Borgarísjakison reported. 

He sent another to watch over Klaki, to overhear what the captain said when he did not know dangerous ears were listening. If Borgarísjakison was playing at treason? Well, the creature could be replaced – but to kill a nephew of the old king might be… politically problematic.

That did not mean Schmidt was not already making plans to do just that.

Klaki Borgarísjakison was proving just a little too lucky.

Schmidt did not trust ‘lucky’ wins. From experience? Easy victories tended to cost more than the hard-fought ones. 

On the way back to his quarters, he passed one of the clefts in the ice that served the Jotun palace as a window.

A knot of common troops was clustered in the courtyard below, using the curve of wall to take a break from the wind while they ate the day’s meal.

One of the giants, a rude oaf of the Rime breed, had pulled himself to the top of the wall and was entertaining his comrades between gulps from his flask.

The sound was… strange.

Different.

Stopping by a random guardsman, he asked. “What is that song?”

The soldier grinned, diamond bright in the fading light. “A new one, Rauður Höfuðkúpa. From the taverns up north. Pleasant, is it not?”

Standing this near the opening the sound came clearer, words as well as tune resonating even over the scream of wind.

_“I’m dreaming of a white winter  
Just like the ones we used to know  
Where the ice cliffs glisten  
And hunters listen  
To hear warbeasts cross the snow.”_

“Arrrgg.” Dark power blasted from Red Skull’s hands. It shattered the wall, sending razor-edged ice chunks down to crush the Jotun soldiers below. “Slay them! Slay them all!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I wrote about 3 chapters in the wrong direction - before I realized that neither I nor Loki really gave a wit about General Ross. So... had to track back and salvage. *blush* The rest of the story should be on track. *cross fingers*

“Your Majesty!”

Loki paused ten feet inside the room. A courtesy, given that the pod’s usual residents were scrabbling over every inch of limited floor space, pushing bags to the walls to set the semblance of a high chair. Out of respect, he let them.

(Midgardians had a miscomprehension that ritual served the king. Actually, it served the populace, those being generally more content when their overlords were predictable. Loki himself would have preferred dry boots and hot soup… but he reminded himself that he desired a kingdom far more.)

Even in his Jotun form Loki had found the path from the portal to this hidden bunker a long, cold, trek.

The Hulk – or rather Dr. Bruce Banner – wiggled though the sheltered doorway. The man was already losing his green.

Loki could not say – were he totally honest – that he was truly comfortable with Banner in that persona. Fortunately (for his prospects of a throne) Loki seldom found it necessary to say anything with total honesty. 

Banner evidently followed the same policy. Their transportation from Midgard had been as silent as it was swift. Not that the summer winds were an encouragement to conversation. He might – shouting – have been heard over them. Perhaps. Fortunately for his throat, the Hulk was not a demanding conversationalist. He had followed behind Loki like the beast of burden he was. 

“How’s he doing?” Banner addressed one of the human soldiers – from the insignia on his shoulder a medical officer – who was watching a heavily bandaged Jotun.

The Jotun – Loki recognized him as Ráðast son of Hylja Móðu - was propped up along the little alcove serving as the medical station. Loki gave himself good-king points for that last, seeing as how the young soldier was showing more bandage than skin. His legs were splinted and propped on a packing box. One of his arms was wrapped in plastic, and very likely rime-ice below that.

“Heya!” Ráðast propped himself up on his own good elbow. “What’s pink on the outside, blue on the inside, and going to kill the red sorcerer?

“LOKI LAUFREYSON!” the company cheered.

The laughs were more from tension then from wit, given that the kenning really was a dreadful one.

Still, Loki could feel his own lips turning up.

Clearly, the human’s had also administered some of their morphine. SHIELD had sent a medical officer who (Loki supposed) was as generally competent as all the other humans SHIELD had provided. It was simply that Jotunheim had little in the way of medicine to BE offered – the species dividing as it did between the sturdy and the dead. Ráðast gave the appearance of one uncertain as to which side of the chasm would suit him best.

“Ráðast Móðuson” Loki gave the kenner a pat on the shoulder. Gentle enough to avoid injury. Hard enough not to be condescending. “As bards go? You make a magnificent soldier.”

That got even louder laughs. Loki told himself it wasn’t just because he was the boss. Some comebacks, after all, were classics.

“Fair enough.” Blonsky cut though the general hilarity. “So what is on the schedule, your Majesty, other than Raddy here’s doomed stand-up career.”

“We can start with that.” Loki kept his tone cheerful. It wasn’t the young soldier’s fault that things had gotten – as Rogers would say – dicey. No. The risk was inherent in the plan. 

“The troop was commanded to the capitol. The captain wanted Ráðast to come with them.”

No one needed to add that declining was not – under the circumstances – an option. Jotun warriors weren’t famed for their quiet acceptance of other opinions. Which didn’t make Ráðast’s little impromptu concert any less of a bad idea. He should have anticipated that Schmidt would recognize the source of the… provocation. Then again, it wasn’t like the man wasn’t aiming for Midgard anyway.

“The question is how to respond now.”

“Packing?” Blonsky indicated the stacked crates. “That’s what you said before. And we have enough metal.”

There would never be enough metal… but they had all Stark and Thor’s woman - Jane - needed for now to create their false Bifrost. What more was needed – for whatever debt remained after all the counted was done – could wait on his coronation.

“True. And if Schmidt’s army comes up to the warning line, then your orders are to withdraw.”

There. Neutrally stated. There was something of an irregular chain of command, with the ‘free Jotun’ following Loki, and the Asgard troops (mostly the Warriors Three and their friends) following Thor and Blonsky following… whomever. From the way they spoke of Fury not wholly SHIELD, but from the way they spoke of Rogers? Not NOT SHIELD either. As armies went… this lot made a fine rabble.

How fortunate – again – that Loki had long been master of chaos.

“That said.” He frowned at the muttering humans. “I desire to keep this portal open so long as it can be done without undue risk.”

“You have a plan?”

Foolish question. Loki always had a plan.

“In two parts.”

Loki spread a new map on the long table (row of boxes, more honestly) that bisected the center of their shelter.

The company clambered around, snatching bottles and random tools out of the way, and incidentally elbowing each other for space on the front row.

First. Rauður Höfuðkúpa is looking for my ‘rebel hideout’. It rather seems wise that he should find it.” Loki placed a marker on the map. “Here.”

Around the table necks craned to see the location. It was on the far coast, almost as far from Helblindi’s stronghold as their base here, but as close as in the opposite direction as geography would allow.

“Interesting choice.” Blonsky’s voice has that note of trained indifference which – Loki had learned – professional warriors of Midgard used to indicate impressed approval.

“There is a portal there, although a weak and unstable gate. He might believe I would use it.”

“Not if he’s thinking carefully.”

“Who says I’m willing to let him think?”

His opponents’ rage had always been Loki’s sharpest dagger. Thor had eventually learned this. (Although the blond oaf still fell to common errors. Loki considered his ongoing educational efforts as a sort of repayment to the Asir throne. Thor’s would be a wise reign – or a brief one.)

“There are better portals in worse territory.” Most of which Loki had considered and discarded in his own invasion plans. “This is the hardest possible march that he would still believe I would undertake. Let us let him venture it first.”

The steel-clawed human popped out one of his hand-blades, using it to trace the twisted path of white mountains an army would travel to reach that point. It was a rough route, one that went south enough to be tryingly warm by the standards of the Mountain Clans before plunging among glaciated mountains that would prove too cold for the southern Rime Giants. “Yeh. If he’s heading south? Every step is a step further from where we really are.”

“Farther from where I really will be – when the invasion comes. I do not doubt that my loyal forces will be greater …” Loki paused to let the Jotun troops admire his confidence. “It is as the bard says:”

_“Blades glittered as grass  
Borne bring rich renown  
Hard reaping such foes gathered  
Thin grass is easily mown_

He turned to Blonsky, then to the head of the Jotun forces. “I have brought supplies enough to set up a small camp. Pick half a dozen of your hardiest – whoever you can spare best – to create the illusion of occupation for any eyes the sorcerer may send.” The men looked uneasy at that, not eager to volunteer. Loki allowed himself to think it was dismay at missing the battle and not panicked distrust of Loki himself as an honest ring-giver. “I will go also to add snow golems to the numbers.” That brought a sigh of reassurance. Not that the animated snowdrifts would be much use in a fight, but they would prove a distraction. “Also to establish a portal back to Midgard.” And there – there - was the feel of trust he wanted. “ If approached, the team is to evacuate without delay. This is to distract an army, not to be held against it.”

“Which brings me to the second part. If we want our foe to react more than act? We ramp up his motivation.”

“Banner?”

The creature – or rather Loki must now think of him as the Avenger – had long since wiggled out of the mass of straps which had been constructed to fit his larger avatar. Now the flap of the… backpack, Stark had called it … slumped half-open against the reflective walls.

“Darcy sends her love, guys. Also some presents for the PsyOps team.”

“More jokes?” Ráðast sounded hopeful. Clearly he knew his workings were less than witty.

“I’m sure she’d got you some new standup somewhere in the mix.” Banner dug though his kit. After a moment, he held out a passel of small black squares. 

Loki recognized the packs. Stark had named them as MP3, although what those were when using kin-names?

Evidently the SHIELD forces found them familiar – also welcome. The sight brought a flurry of action, men pulling thin beads on loops of wire from their pockets and (disturbingly) ears.

“Stark’s getting into music?” Blonsky’s second snagged one with a claw point.

“Actually these MP3 players are made by Hammer Industries.”

Banner shrugged. “Evidently disposable players are below Stark’s standards. Also, even arresting the CEO and major shareholder wasn’t grounds for breaking HammerTech’s contract. The army - via Ross – owed Hammer Industries a fair hunk of change. Since nobody was going to let them deliver guns?”

That brought renewed chuckles. Evidently scuttlebutt had repeated what War Machine had said about HammerTech’s field performance.

“They ordered ‘field hardened MP3s’?” Blonsky’s rolled his eyes. “Better be gentle with them, guys.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Banner delivered that like the punch line it was. “Since Johann Schmidt knows that the loyalist army is getting tech support from Midgard? Why not go with … tech support from Midgard.”

The Jotun soldiers had each taken one of the new devices, and were turning them over with various degrees of curiosity.

“These work like….” Banner pointed to one of the Midgardian’s pockets. White wires snaking from hip to ear indicated that someone had considered Apple products a vital survival supply for an off-world expedition.

“Very simple.” Banner carefully demonstrated how the speaker plugged into the boxes. “Play only, and preloaded with Loki’s personal playlist.”

“Really?” Loki hadn’t known he had a personal playlist. Then again, he hadn’t known he had a ‘Twitter following’ until the maiden Darcy had informed him. Some of the gifts of Midgard were strange indeed.

Banner clicked though the face, showing the various lighted images that could be summoned. “We held a YouTube contest for the best remix. Toe-tapers like _“Death to the Tyrant_ , _“Loki is my King_ , and carefully edited excerpts from the _“ ‘Live from Berlin’_ appearance. Plus the hit single _“Loki Will Bring Back Winter_.

He pushed the central wheel and a quick beat of drums and nor-horns filled the room. Some Jotun – a pleasant baritone with a Rime-Giant accent – began singing about Loki’s heroic virtues.

Banner waited a few bars before clicking it off. 

“Normally we’d do radio broadcasts but…”

“No radio,” Blonsky finished.

“So we went with these.” Banner turned to the Jotun infiltration teams. “You can leave them behind when an area gets too risky, or when you see an opportunity to move on. These are not exactly indestructible, but they are a lot less vulnerable then a live bard. Plastic doesn’t scream when you crush it.”

Rumor was that Helblindi (or really – Schmidt) had moved up to burning at the stake. Loki wasn’t sure he believed it. Where would they get the wood from – for one thing? But even as he denied the possibility it sent a deep atavistic tremor down his spine. Many punishments were horrible – by his standards as well as those of the so-sensitive humans – but that…?

“I’ll thank you for that.” One of the senior Jotun – Loki recognized him as Kuldakast of the Ice Mountain, answered. “Helblindi is outlawing anyone he even suspects of listening to dubious songs.”

“He’ll be all the more fierce after he gets an earful of this.” Ráðast had managed to borrow one of the earphones, and now he sang the first verse of _‘Helblindi Whores for Dwarves’_..

I say.” Kuldakast looked down at the misleadingly innocuous black box. “That seems a bit…”

“Extreme? Yes. That’s the reason.” Banner gestured for the Jotun contingent to pull nearer. “Most people – even people who are not people – are natural moderates. Not in the political meaning but… they don’t want to think of themselves as puritans – as fuddy duddies – but they also don’t want to think of themselves as out there – as doing any of the freaky stuff.” He made a turn-it-off gesture, indicating that the last tune ranked among the freaky. “So we provide a layer of extreme that they can reject. Then they feel perfectly comfortable listening to the stuff we want them too.”

The good doctor’s smile was soft. Mild and reassuring. Much as – Loki recognized – it always was just before things became especially green.

“We have a whole different batch for you guys who are working with the noble houses.”

Banner picked up a differently marked MP3 player. From this one came a much softer tune. Even the SHIELD operatives had learned enough Allspeak to make join in the chorus. _‘Laufey’s Son is Wise and Good’_..

“Catchy.”

“Subtle too.” Loki caught the hint in the second verse. Helblindi did not have green eyes.

And when Helblindi or one of his court objects? Well, it’s obvious that he’s just being a buzz-kill. Because really, it’s not like being called wise and good is something a sensible king should find objectionable.”

“We have some other things you can use when things are risky.”

Oh yes. Those. They had discussed – at length – the degree to which Jötunheimr was primarily an oral culture. Still, Loki had reminded them, oral wasn’t the same as illiterate. Literacy was pretty basic once you get outside of the court – runic script being vastly different from the Midgardian alphabetic methods the humans chose to write with – but most of the Jotun could read.

“The SHIELD art team came up with some great wall posters.”

He passed the roll to Kuldakast, who showed the image to the appreciative audience. It was a three-color print of Thor and Loki standing outside SHIELD headquarters in the day after Manhattan. Of course the gag and bonds had been Photoshopped out, as had the cage around the Tesseract. What remained was a touching tableau of two princes sharing a royal treasure.

The Jotun team cheered.

“You’ll have to be careful where you put these,” Banner warned.

Because, Loki thought, wall posters required walls. The Jotun did have those, but they wouldn’t once Helblindi men spotted one of these.

“But Rodgers came up with a solution. Steve’s a pretty solid artist. Plus he knew someone who did Allied propaganda back in the big war days.” Grinning wide, he produced a thin sheave of brown paper. “Tijuana bibles.”

Now the Midgard crew took their turn at nudging and chuckling.

“Well, eight pagers.” Banner passed the small booklets around. “Not so much with the fun porn aspects. Still, there are some classic visuals.”

“Oh yes!” Blonsky was flipping though the booklet. “I remember this one.” 

He turned it so Loki could see.

“Interesting styling.”

“It’s from an old Captain America comic panel.”

Loki looked again. The primary-colored square showed Captain America punching out Red Skull. Except this time the Captain was blue and icy.

Clever.

“And, where you are truly among friends?” Banner rummaged deeper into his bag.

The thing he pulled out was a mid-sized sheet – smaller than the wall poster yet larger than the comic – printed on a sturdy weatherproof paper. The line drawing showed Laufey and another Jotun (from the jewelry presumptively his martyred Queen Fárbauti) gazing in adoration at an unspecified Jotun infant.

The rune below, printed in gold, insisted that ‘The Worthy Heir Shall Ever Be Our Rightful King’.”

Kuldakast took it gently. “Most proper.”

“This can pass where more blatant messages can not.” Banner held the portrait up to general approval. “And on the back?”

He flipped the page over.

Loki’s ancient map had been redrawn in much clearer and more accurate geographic detail. It marked only two sea routes, both of them leading to exits, and both those exits leading to Loki’s Antarctic camp.

“Recruiting poster.” The steel-claw man grinned, teeth just as sharp and bitter as his blades.

“Exactly.” Banner’s smile was just as wide – and no more comforting. “Uncle Loki wants YOU.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Great Prince… The gate opens!” A young Jotun burst into the main hall. One Loki did not know – not by sight. Still, he wore the lines of the Ice Clans and – more significantly – the emblem of the Free Jotun Army on his short cloak. 

“More refugees?” Loki showed no surprise – for he felt none. The Red Skull had been acting as anticipated – by which one may read badly – and Loki’s PsyOps troops had therefore been doing even better than expected. They were brave warriors, bards and poets, and had moved across the Four Lands of Jotunheim in spite of – even because of - Helblindi’s increasing madness.

“More troops?” Björn Kló asked hopefully. He collected the scattered documents, filing them carefully before rising to check the disturbance.

Loki looked on with approval. He had done well to name the young Ice Giant as Jarl and Goðar for his court. Björn had proved wise as well as conscientious, and gifted in the fine art of making peace between the factional Jotun refugees.

Not, Loki grants, a talent he claims for himself.

Still, Stark insisted the virtue of management was to command all skills, not to posses them. Stark had the hirdwif Pots and he had Björn Kló.

The camp had grown, making it a twisted walk from Loki’s office to the flattened ice where the portal discharges. It is also crowded, many of the Jotun soldiers having abandoned dull tasks for the excitement (hope!) of seeing new arrivals. They give way to their King, but it is still a matter of waits, each needing to look back and identify just who is pressing at their shoulders. By the time Loki reached the viewing platform near the portal even the humans have caught the excitement, hunting for spots not blocked by the taller Jotun, and several of them have to step down to make space for Loki, Björn, and those drangs of his court guard who have managed to keep step though the crowd.

The space between the pillars flashed blue – and stayed so.

Loki gestured.

The Jotun guards at the ramp foot steadied their pikes.

Further back, high in the covered roofs of the overlooking buildings, Loki heard the click which meant less traditional weapons were also armed. Again, he considered, a tribute to Björn’s foresight – and thus to his own foresight for honoring Björn. They could not use Midgard’s guns in the true invasion, but there was no restriction in using the weapons of Midgard when defending Midgard’s soil.

One giant came though, spear forward and body tense.

Another followed.

Then another.

Then – and this was most interesting – an older giant holding a gold-banded ensign. Twisted bracelets marked his thick arms, and a long sword hung from a belt of carved stone links. The commander of the spearmen – both by insignia and by his proud posture.

The giant paused, searching the crowed pressing the outer bounds of the landing zone. When he spotted Loki, he turned. 

Red eyes locked with red.

Loki nodded.

The giant bowed.

A command was shouted back. Loki could not make the word, but it was clearly an order, as soon giant after giant marched in steady pairs from the portal.

Not just a thegn, then, given honor by age and by victory. This was a himthiki of an established folc or even the housekarl of a rich jarl. Loki’s messengers were being more persuasive than he might dream, or the madness of Rauður Höfuðkúpa was making life in the halls a nightmare.

“Blessing beyond telling, Loki-King.” Another young Jotun had slid from the spear ranks below the gate and now panted with impatience at the foot of Loki’s platform. 

He had been close enough to hear the first travelers. 

Loki signaled his guard to allow him up.

The young soldier fell to his knees.

“Loki-King” His voice was a broken gust. “Angrboða comes.”

“Blood of Ymir.” Björn Kló made the sign of the horns.

Behind him a human woman – one of the Norse specialists sent by SHIELD – crossed herself.

Loki felt the impulse to do both as he watched the growing procession march though from Jotunheim.

This was a turn in the war. Not just a refugee, although whoever was arriving must be that as well. A noble – a high noble from the way those standing responded to the name – and beyond that a noble still with housecarls. Mounted, with beasts and sleighs and… was that a knorr? 

Loki’s spearmen let more of the crowd up to the landing zone. Loki’s own loyalists joined the newcomers, blue hands joining on the thick leather ropes, straining to pull the ship over its stone rollers.

It cleared with a pop, sliding to the foot of the ramp like a snow-carved swan.

One of the Midgardian snowplows chugged up. The yellow-suited crew wrapped chains to the center beam, aiding the Jotun skeppare to balance the hull. With a whine of engine and a groan of wood, the knorr cut a path to a stable berthing.

Into the now cleared space marched more Jotun solders, this time flanking a heavily carved sledge pulled by two pairs of ís jarfi. The beast’s painted harnesses glittered with enameled studs, making a brilliant show of red and green against their heavy gray fur.

The interior was draped with more fur, protection for the well-wrapped passenger.

At the end a pair of pack-beasts bore the covers of a hall, the carved ends of the roof-beam visible at each end of the heavy fabric bundle.

Loki nodded his approval.

No. This was no rabble of desperate, starving refuges fleeing to Loki’s table. This was a deliberate move to his side, which in turn means both that his messages were getting out and… better still… that his offers were being well judged.

*~*~*

“Welcome.”

Loki stood back, letting Bjorn offer the first word. It is more formal, more proper, and it makes his young jarl proud to share such an honor.

It’s also – Loki confesses inwardly – safer. As Stark phrased it after the first assassination attempt? Not every visitor is bringing cookies.

The Jotun troopers knelt in their ranks, one knee braced on the ice to steady their weapons.

More Jotun – clearly stablemen – ran to hold the wolves and steady the sledge as it eased to a stop in the well-protected center of the house guard.

The rider inside pushed back his hood. Loki was almost blinded by the flash of gold over gold. A heavy necklace of gem-stuck beads hung in a dozen rows from his enameled shoulder broaches. The only thing brighter was the beauty of the scarlet eyes staring fiercely over the black-iron ranks of his soldiers’ spears.

“Oh!” Loki heard his breath stutter. “Very welcome.”

The noble figure (and anyone that richly dressed must be a noble born – and anyone that stunning would be a noble wed were they not born to the rank) stood, rising a full half-body above the wall of weapons.

“Do you grant us truce?”

Normally the question was a formality. Those who come here come at Loki’s mercy. This time? Not so much. This was a true noble, a ruler perhaps not equal in claim but certainly equal in honor, and in this moment Loki stood as much judged as judge.

He stepped out, hands open.

“Truce, welcome, and hosting, if you flee from Helblindi’s ill will into my far more friendly company.”

Angrboða likewise stepped forward, parting the spear-wall. Every movement was grace and seamless art.

“Then be welcomed for your welcome.” His voice was low, rolling like the notes of a flute over still water.

Loki locked his knees to keep from falling to them in awe.

How could any people be counted monstrous who birthed a beauty such as this?

*~*~*

Within the sledge, the furs gave a lurch.

Two small blue heads stuck out.

“Who are…?” Loki’s question was automatic, asked before he considered if he wished to be found asking. But then, following the lure of knowledge had always been his signature flaw.

“My sons, Nari and Váli.”

At Angrboða’s summons the children tumbled out and came running, gripping their parent around the knees in that mix of curiosity and inability to sit still that Loki could still feel in his own bones, even so many years freed from frowning tutors. He wondered, fleetingly, if it was the nature of frost giants or just of childhood.

He was no judge of Jotun years, but by Asir standards they might be three and perhaps seven. Six if one discounted a year for height. The older was not a particularly towering lad, for all he seemed well built and gifted with the glowing energy of all healthy children.

They were traditionally bare – as seemed the Jotun custom - but both wore thin gold torcs around their narrow necks.

Angrboða’s hugged both boys, lifting the smaller to his shoulder.

This close, Loki could see the round buds of tiny horns, the mark of Ymir’s ancient linage.

“These are the last heirs of Hafísjaki Sykurhjúpason, Sealord of Rokholt. Their sire lies slain on the ice field of Pekja Hrími, ambushed by the Rauður Höfuðkúpa as he rode to the court.”

“Rode alone?”

“An honest guest does not need shield brothers – and against a treacherous host they will prove no shield.”

And a stalking horse is fair bait for the unwary. Loki felt a pang of admiration for the departed Hafísjaki. Many war chiefs knew the value of a tempting - a seemingly unguarded – target. Few had the courage to ride that dark horse.

“In wisdom he had his whole household follow some space behind. I had thought…” Angrboða’s eyes grew dark, remembering pain. “It was meant that we should ride to his rescue should any… accident… befall him.”

The word ‘and’ died on Loki’s tongue. This was no time to press. Not in the face of evident agony. Well, not so long as greater pain would bring no greater information – and Angrboða seemed willing enough to speak – if in his own way and words.

“We rode armed.” A sweep of the giant’s arm added the coda ‘as you can see’. “But Rauður Höfuðkúpa set upon him with not with blade or bone but with great clanking beasts that….”

“Clanking?” Tony Stark had somehow pushed his way to the front of the clustered court. “Can you describe?”

“Stark!”

Loki deeply – deeply – desired to slap the man. But that would prove as ill mannered as… well… as Stark himself. Plus mere physical impact was unlikely to shut the man's mouth. Not to mention the sad lack of convenient windows.

He contented himself with pushing gently. “Forgive this peasant. I would call him raised by wolves, save that wolves are courteous in their pack. He is more a shark on land.”

“Actually – yeh. I sort of am.” He sent the three Jotun a smile warm enough to melt glaciers. “But only in a very good way.”

Starks charm had – Loki was hurt to observe – it’s usual inexplicable effect.

The littlest boy – Váli was it? – giggled.

Angrboða smiled. 

Nari looked up from knee level. “A good shark?

Tony Stark knelt down to ruffle the boy’s dark hair. “You’re not the one I plan to bite.”

And that – Loki decided – was enough wasted chatter. He shot a pointed look at the senior of his guardsmen, indicating that it was past time things got moving. To Angrboða he bowed again, holding out one hand. “These and many other matters may be better discussed in my quarters, with wine, and fresh furs.”

At Angrboða hesitation, Loki realized that the Frost Giant might have in the past heard such word when the offer was… not fully political.

“Bring your guards, if you will.” Loki turned, signaling his own men to go back to their duties. “No man minds a shield if he uses not a sword.”

*~*~*

After some consultation with his troop, Angrboða had accepted Loki’s invitation. As had – officially just out of a desire to meet their new overlord – the three most senior of the surviving Rokholt housekarls. Björn Kló had, with the tactical employment of a fresh roasted ham - herded all three to the far end of Loki’s quarters, in sight but out of easy eavesdropping.

Two others of the Rokholt household had followed, but from the simplicity of their gear and the absence of weaponry (or, for that matter, introduction) Loki had quickly identified these as some variety of nursery maids. They had settled along the wall nearest to Angrboða’s chair, tucking the two boys between them.

As if more proof was needed of the very long journey they had endured, it took only a few hummed words before a pair of sleeping bags proved more enticing than even the marvels of a new house. Both lads were now curled beneath piles of down, only the soft snores of childhood revealing their presence.

Loki poured out mead, being obvious in taking the first sip.

“King Loki?” Angrboða took the cup between graceful fingers. “I marvel at your ambition. A cast off prince of Asir?”

Ah. And who ever said that beauty must be foolish? The greatest beauties were often the cleverist. Which some counted a pity, but Loki had always admired a cunning mind even above a stunning body. To find both together?

He settled into the high seat, nibbling on a slice of fish. (Boar was a more common treat, but Stark had imported some artisan called a sushi chef. Loki approved of his work. The local fish was very very fresh.)

Offering the treat to his guest, he asked. “Would you find it better if they loved me?”

Angrboða waited, duly considering. After a time he answered. “More profitable.”

“Say then, if I loved them.”

“Do you?”

Oh. And there was the fatal question.

Loki had answers, far planned and well practiced. Now, however, he felt the odd urge to be… honest.

“Some”, he replied, words coming slow like snow over icepack. “In minor ways.”

Not as Odin wished. Not as Thor wished. Not, perhaps, as Loki should have wished. But within the twists of need and greed and denial and refutation? Somehow the emotion remained, caught like memory in an amber jewel.

“My…. The Prince Thor. Him I love almost against my will. He is like a man-shaped Laberdoodle, which by some unconceivable magic demands affection.” Loki reached for the mead. “Frigga. Beyond question. But in her case it openly is magic. She is all-mother to all men. And in any case?” He shrugged, confessing his own vulnerability even as he denied it. “She is of the Vanir, with whom the Jotun claim no quarrel.”

“None save that she is fond of Odin of the Asir.”

And, Loki thought, we return again to the point of the blade.

“Does a fondness for one mean enmity for all others? For I tell you I am fond also of some Midgardians, and even of some citizens of the Álfar realms.”

“But.” He held out his hand. “I am very very willing to learn a new fondness for those of Jotunheim.”

“You push much.”

“Would you have a timid king?”

Angrboða took the offered hand. “I would not have a stranger king. I would have a king who was of Jotunheim. Who loved the ice and the peoples of the ice.”

“Fair enough.” Loki twined their fingers, drawing the other giant close. “So. Tell me of these people you would have me love.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. On the road. Limited computer. Limited time. Limited sanity. (But you knew that last one already. Right?)

“Wow – Is that thing native?” Because I thought polar bears were a North Pole thing. Also – smaller.”

Stark was talking, as always. Half to Angrboða, half to… well, himself, or to his simulacra. The difference seemed no difference, from Loki’s perspective. He found both annoying. Angrboða, however, seemed to find the babble charming. Which was, somehow, more annoying.

Loki told himself it was because Stark was wasting time, time that should be spent working on weaponry. Working on weaponry somewhere else. Somewhere that did not disturb Loki’s… ally.

Not that the gathered Jotun seemed other than amused at the mortal dervish that bounced bright red and gold nylon sharp against the fresh snow of the camp. 

“It is a creature of Jotunheim.” Loki found himself stepping between the Angrboða and Stark. To cover, he made a show of scratching the jarfi behind one white-furred ear.

“Tell me you’re not going to make a house pet of it.”

“I’m going to ride it.”

Stark took a huge step back, shivering. Mockery, not cold. “Jarvis. Make a note. Weatherized ATV’s. Priority.”

He also stepped away from Angrboða. Flirtation, clearly, could not match the lure of a new invention.

Stark was still an annoyance – but he was growing on Loki. Or if not actually on Loki, then at least on some fraction of Loki’s new followers.

The two boys - Nari and Váli - followed behind the mortal like paired wolf pups.

When Barton had described the man Loki had taken him for some sort of vísendakonder. Which was accurate – in its way. In as close a way as anything moral could be to the nine realms. But he was also a solid smith, as strong with a hammer as any dwarf.

More than that, he was clever with it.

Forging metal had never been among the Jotun gifts. The land lacked the fuel, and beyond that no creature of the cold could long bear the heat of an open forge. Nor would their strength hold long enough to hammer out red metal. But Shark had built some sort of Midgardian furnace called a beehive, closed save the smallest of openings where the metal could be thrust in on a long pole. With this, and with several layers of protective leather, some of the young men were learning a craft called sand casting. It was not so fine a creation as dwarven work, but with it they were producing spearheads and knife blades as sharp as the fish-bone knives the Jotun seafarers were used to. 

Perhaps – when the throne was his – he would reopen the old mines. Too much of Jotunheim’s wealth had been squandered, first by war and then by the needs of a starving populace. Laufrey had tried to amend this by reiving. Midgard had instead a rune-art called the balance of trade. 

Yes, he decided. Where Helblindi blocked the branches between worlds, Loki would open them wide. Many would barter for Jotun goods, preferring his generous terms to the harsh dealing of the Svartálfaheimr. Then the gold of his realm could be used for more worthy purposes, like holding rubies as bright as a … someone’s… eyes.

“Brother.” A crack of thunder broke Loki’s pleasant contemplation.

Oh. And another virtue of mining one’s own gold. He would not have to deal with Asgard. 

“Thor.” 

“Brother.” The blond landed, sending a spray of ice. “I have heard that Angrboða has joined you.”

“Joined my forces, yes.” Loki gave a half-bow in the Jotun’s direction. It was half introduction – not that either party needed such – and half a gesture of ‘see what I must endure from the Asir’. The last went well, as Angrboða smiled and pushed his sons forward to meet the alien prince.

“Yet rumor does not speak half the truth of your beauty, aðalskona.” Thor bent over the blue hand, a copybook picture of courtly grace.

_“Gold is rare, and gems of the land.  
Rarer yet bright maidens, dearer in the hand.” _

“Skjallari.” 

Flattererer, Loki translated. He noted, however, that Angrboða had not reclaimed the hand.

“And you, brother.” Thor’s smile was whiter than the glaciers of the horizon. “I long wondered why you never found joy in another’s eyes, but now I see you waited wisely.”

Angrboða seemed merely amused at Thor’s excess. “Think rather that he dwelt among fools and blind men, if they did not make themselves worthy of one both handsome and wise.”

“Ho. I see your strategy, brother.” Thor’s hardly backslap nearly sent Loki skidding. “Your silver tongue has gained you a warm heart to share a cold throne.”

“Thor!” Norns spare him the torment of older brothers. Asir or Jotun, they existed only to torment him. Of the lot? This moment, Loki decided, he preferred Helblindi. The Jotun king only wanted to kill him. Thor seemed intent that Loki should instead die of mortification.

His audience, however, showed only pleasure at the exchange. Laughing, Angrboða stepped close to Loki’s side. “Say rather that I have reached for a glittering gem, a diamond carved of purest ice.”

Loki now knew – truly knew – what it meant to be frozen. “Do not.” He whispered. “Do not dare to mock me.”

Angrboða knelt, blade offered in the gesture of fealty. “I had thought to love you.”

Loki paused, his fingers a bare inch from the hilt. “Our children will be short,” he warned.

“But powerful.”

*~*~*

“OK.” Stark had taken Thor by one beefy arm, pulling him (unwillingly) away from Loki’s domestic drama. “So. Thor. Dynastic wedding or love match?”

“With Loki? A bit of both. ” Thor glanced back at the embracing couple. “Angrboða’s beauty is… I do not misspeak to say legendary. And my bother is… I have never seen him so captivated.”

“Which makes sense. Well, not entirely, but Pepper tells me I shouldn’t be chauvinistic so I’m getting past the whole seven feet tall and mega muscles. But ignoring those things, which I’m intellectually aware don’t have any relevance when discussing another culture much less another species, and taking into account the whole Loki-is-adopted and slightly-chilled meme? It makes sense. Attraction is biological. Well, yes, I mean it’s somewhat cultural standards of beauty and sociological categories of suitable partners but under all of that? Biology.“ 

Stark kept sneaking glances back at the tableau, which had moved from Angrboða offering his (her?) blade to Loki handing over what looked like half of Tiffanies – if Tiffany had come out with a ‘Viking plunder’ collection. 

“I’m gathering that this Angrboða is a girl sort of ice giant.”

“You may think of him as a girl if you wish. Just do not misjudge his strength in that division.”

“Hey. No misjudging. And I am totally fine with kick-ass women. Just… I was hearing all ‘he’ and ‘his’.”

“The Jotun have no word for female – at least none that I’ve heard used.”

“So linguistically it’s all ‘he’, but biologically?”

Thor shrugged. “Angrboða bore the sons of Hafísjaki Sykurhjúpason. His next son shall rank even higher.”

Which – ok – seemed answer enough for Thor. And since Thor was the one who was actually going to be gaining a new relative? (Brother? Sister? Whatever.) If Thor was happy, then Tony was willing to be happy along with him. [Loki could be happy or miserable, as far as Tony was concerned, just so long as whatever he was he was far FAR away from New York.]

“So the clumsy-puppy routine was just…?”

“Call it a push. My brother is as often too clever for his own will. In this courtship? I would not have him scheme so long that he never comes to act.”

“He cool now with being cool?”

Loki had been spending more time in his Jotun – Tony tried to think of it as his ‘natural’ - form. Which? Not so hard, once you looked beyond the weird. His blue hands, set in contrast to the gold bracers, were still familiar in shape. The etched symbols of Laufrey’s linage were alien, but not unhandsome. If Tony had never seen his green-eyed Lord of the Snark form? If he had never been told that the Jotun were the mean boys in this particularly grim bit of Grimm story-telling? Yeh, he conceded. He would have hit that. Genital frostbite aside? (And skipping the bit where a pissed Pepper could be even chillier.) Yeh. He pretty reliably would have hit that.

Thor frowned, watching as his brother accepted the congratulations of the Rokholt housekarls. “It is… the price of Kingship. Many have born greater.”

“Accepting yourself isn’t something you should have to endure.”

The children had been brought forward. Loki was hugging Váli while Nari clung to his knee. Evidently this particular fairy tale was not going to have a ‘wicked stepmother’. (Stepfather? Again, Tony mentally waved off the ‘whatever’.)

Thor took in the scene with evident satisfaction. “I believe he has found himself reconciled.”

*~*~*

They waited for the cheering to die down before returning.

Thor, of course, had to formally congratulate the lucky couple, and then shake hands (slap backs, knock spears, or whatever) with the growing mob of Jotun well-wishers. This was, under all the smiles and come-hither looks, still very much a diplomatic venture.

Tony Stark hung back until the activity moved safely away in Angrboð’s wake. He found himself with Thor – and, surprisingly, Loki - in the calm center of the social storm.

“So.” Stark asked. “Your army plus hers. His. Whatever. You have the troops enough now to take on Hilbindi’s army?”

Loki laughed. “Not a chance.”

“Then?” What the heck had this been about, if not beating the Jotun army?

“Our wars are not as yours, not fought people against people. Not idea against idea. We fight king against king – and the only questions is that he who lives shall be king.”

“Then why all the…” Stark’s gesture took in the spreading installation of material and men.

“I must fight Helblindi,” Loki answered. “Helblindi has little reason, safe in Jötnarhöll, to fight me.”

“The first battle of any war is to draw out the king, to make him vulnerable.”Thor finished the explanation. “Our troops – Loki’s, the Rokholt vassals, and those warriors I can bring; all will keep Helblindi’s forces at bay.”

“Then what…” He wanted to finish that with ‘have SHIELD forces been doing freezing their arses off at the ass end of nowhere. But, like Thor said, diplomacy and whatnot. Tony hadn’t made his company a major player in the government contract game without learning when (the rare when) it was actually wiser to shut up.

“Your devices – your Midgardian troops - will draw Schmidt’s attention. Colson assures me the Red Skull cannot resist what he will consider new technology. Beyond that, he must face Captain America, who is his traditional foe.”

“You sure that’s going to work? I mean, Coulson was a big fanboy, but I’m not sure the Red Skull rolls that way.”

“To avoid battle with one who has had you outlawed would condemn a warrior as a coward, as níðingr.” 

Thor was clearly shocked that the question was even a question. Tony got the impression that his – Tony’s – own good reputation had taken a hit just for asking the question. Which – OK – didn’t do much for Tony’s opinion of Thor in turn. Weapon contractor here. (Emeritus, but still, two generations of quality capitalist aggression, delivering on time and to specification.) He personally considered that any method of removing an enemy was a good method, and as a general principle the faster, cheaper, and surer the kill? The better for all concerned.

“I will battle Helblindi.” Loki turned to Thor. “Do NOT try to help me. I must be seen to slay him on my own.”

“Brother.” Thor sounded hurt.

“Thor.” Loki paced forward, a lion on the hunt. “Heed my words. You may fight his guards and his jarls, but I alone must slay Helblindi. Interfere– ruin this crown for me – and I swear that Laufey will not be the only king short a son by sunset.”

“But if…”

“If I fall, I fall, but I will be twice dead and playing tafel in Hel before I lose another crown to your clumsy playmates.” 

Loki’s teeth were inches from Thor’s nose. Disconcerted, evidently, even to mythical beefcake heroic sorts, since Thor – in the face of such rage – sort of withered. “Be it as you say, brother.”

“Lopter. Call me Lopter.” Loki snapped. “Or better – your Majesty.”

Thor sighed. “Yes brother.” And rolled his eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

One bone-white boat pushed up onto the ice, sharp hull-beam sticking fast like an ice-saw in a party sculpture.

Pale blue figures scrambled over the bow.

The crag-ringed Vígahnöttur coast was cold even for the Jotun. Today a sea wind added to the misery. It would, however, have filled the square sails and so sped the journey. (Or – perhaps – made it possible at all. Emil Blonsky couldn’t remember if knoor could actually tack to the wind. He didn’t think so, but it never paid to discount enemy technology.)

The men shouting orders were wrapped in fur and leather.

Other Jotun - these naked – were jumping (no, make that being pushed) over the side. Those remaining inside tossed out long ropes. The ground crew – he had to think of them as that, not as the slaves or prisoners they mostly likely were – used these to pull the boat up onto the snow shore.

Blonsky signaled his own troops to keep low.

More ships were coming in. Some were duplicates of the first, long-bodied knoors distinguishable only by the faded colors of their square sails. Some were smaller – fat bottomed river craft straddling to keep level in the ocean of broken ice.

Not exactly the D-day landing, but still the one he had been waiting for.

The presence of ships meant that the misinformation teams had been successful. The small numbers of the expedition? That was a trickier question.

Blonsky stepped out from his snow shelter. He might be seen – even with his ice camo redesigned for the local landscape – but that was a manageable risk. The first necessity was to get pictures, get information, get the battlefield sitrep back to SHIELD and therefore to command.

A single click focused his visor-camera. More Stark-tech, and a better record than his own memory could provide. Intel would dissect every pixel, pulling out any visible clue and adding the info to the other sources until Coulson knew as much about Helblindi’s troop movements as the Frost King himself.

That done?

“Fall back” he whispered into his throat mike. From the corner of his eye he saw his assigned mystic activate the runes

His second standing order was not to get good men killed. Wars for resources could be justified, but not if they turned expensive. They weren’t fighting on a budget – nothing with Stark in charge was every done on the cheap – but that didn’t mean that as field commander he wasn’t carefully conscious of the cost. SHIELD – all of the supporting allies – were putting irreplaceable talents on the line for this operation. Meta personnel were treasures they were willing to gamble, but very reluctant to lose.

“Waiting on you, sir.” Ólmast Pækillson, the senior Jotun, held out his long spear. That would be a help in climbing the narrow path over the snow leading back to their buried camp.

Blonsky tossed over his visor. “I’m staying to handle these.”

His third set of orders were to manage the flanking pincher, if possible. Any troops pulled away from the main battlefield were troops the main forces would not have to face. Any ships here were not bringing troops and supplies to Jötnarhöll.

He counted sails as the varied crafts beached in scattered clumps all around the semi-circle of the ice bay. So far? This rag-tag fleet hardly seemed like a huge loss to the Red Skull. That meant the main body of the Jotun fleet might be attaching elsewhere. Or – if luck and agitprop were on the side of the pretender, sitting out the battle. {The chance of them joining Loki would be insane luck. Battlefield experience had taught Blonsky that hoping for such luck was – as the label said – insane.]

Small though the present fleet was, it was still a danger. He couldn’t let them sail on, perhaps to attack from the rear while Loki did not expect them. Or – and this was just as great a danger – to sail back home unbloodied, and so inform Red Skull of the errors in his command intel.

“Sir?” Ráðast Móðuson hesitated, stopping the march of men though the glowing circle of nothing.

“I said,” Blonsky, repeated in his best command voice, “I’m staying to disable the enemy.”

He could handle them. Or rather, he-the-Abomination could… as the phrase went… smash. 

Afterwards?

Maybe he could capture a boat, if he retained some logic, or luck, or if the crews ran far enough away that the hulls were outside the range of mayhem. Maybe he could swim back to Jötnarhöll. Maybe – equal odds – he would die here if Loki were beaten back. It made no difference. Even before his transformation, Emil Blonsky knew he was destined to end his life on some battlefield. If this was the one? He had the comfort that it wouldn’t be his own uniforms shooting at him.

*~*~*

“Ready?” Coulson asked, quiet as the ghost he was.

Logan, serving as radioman, knew the man was inquiring about the battle in general, not just about the small squad of commando bards dug in overlooking Jötnarhöll.

“Ripe and juicy.” The veteran X-man smiled behind his layers of scarf. “When the court heard that Angrboða of Rokholt was on Loki’s side? Well, if I was Helblindi’s life insurance agent, I wouldn’t go selling him any new policies.”

“Or, you know, encouraging him to walk down any steep staircases.” Barton smiled as this own wit. Except, Logan acknowledged, the bit where it wasn’t a joke at all. Because high blood pressure wasn’t the leading cause of death among unpopular kings.

“We can’t count on that,” Coulson reminded them. “Even if all the Clan Chiefs follow Rokholt, Helblindi will still have his housekarls.”

Yes, Logan considered. Those who had profited from Helblindi’s exactions would not want a return to the old lordships – not when those old lords were not them. Those who had lost under Helblindi would want their own power back – and a little more. Conclusion? Helblindi’s thegns would die with their current king, or they would die soon enough after him.

“And Red Skull?” Logan questioned Coulson in return. Because while the battle would be fought here, it would not be fought only here,

“Good and… not so good.” Coulson wavered at his edges. “I’ve heard from Blonsky. Expected troop movement up to Vígahnöttur, but that is where we suffer from our own success. With the sea lords united against him the Skull couldn’t get the boats he needed to move more than forty-seven ships.”

“We get our guys out?” Logan knew that forty-seven ships was still several hundred big, mean, dangerous Jotun. He also knew that – even on a Midgard battlefield full of puny humans – it only took one enemy to kill you.

“All but Blonsky himself.”

At Logan’s concerned grunt, Coulson added, “Blonsky volunteered for rear-guard. The Abomination went full-Banner on the ships.”

“Rubber duck smash.” Barton interjected, adding the hand motions for emphasis. Or maybe just because smacking imaginary boats was fun.

“However.” Coulson cut off the clown theater. “Blonsky came back to himself soon enough to count heads post-action and?” He paused to get both men’s full attention. “The fleet survivors showed lots of conscript sailors, a few mercenary captains from Skriðjökullholt, and absolutely no important prisoners.”

“Ouch.” Logan has enough real-war memories to know what that meant. When you didn’t capture ranking officers? It meant that the real troop focus was aimed somewhere else. “Any idea how much of the fleet is still in play?”

“More than we anticipated.”

Which could be any number between one and Japanese armada at the Battle of Midway. Which didn’t matter, really, so far as Logan’s duty was involved. Shrugging, he gave the eternal NCO answer. “Well do our best to trim the numbers, sir.”

How, he wasn’t sure. They could sink a few. Perhaps. With luck, and intel, and lucky intel. After Helblindi’s confiscations the piers were bare. Any remaining hulls were hidden in small coves or beached and buried. 

“Some will try and sit the battle out – come in late and side with the winner,” Barton suggested.

“Can you encourage that?” Coulson asked.

“What do you think we’ve been doing? Playing tafel?” Logan snicked a blade at a rough board scratched into the rock.

“Effectively? Yes.” The quirk of eyebrow took off any insult, leaving the deeper commentary on the strategies of war.

“How’s Fury doing for spare budget?” Logan’s answer was just as arch – and fully as knowing. If war was tafel? Gold could weight the dice.

“Stark’s got vibranium on the brain.” Coulson’s Non sequitur … wasn’t.

“And Vígahnöttur has the vibranium, and Loki has Vígahnöttur.” Logan finished the equation.

“And that means that - for now - Stark has Loki’s back.” Colson shrugged. Or, at least, smoke-wavered in a notably ironic way. “Like I said. Tafel. It’s always best when played for money.”

“I’ll tell the guys to start getting real generous. Money might not buy friends, but it can sure buy large drinking parties far far away from the intersection of shit and fan.” And even those Jotun thegn who weren’t interested in changing overlords had sense enough to be interested in having a backup plan – just in case their overlord got changed ON them. The curious could be made flexible, and the flexible hesitant, and a hesitant warrior on the other side was the next best thing to having an eager guy on your own.

“That will keep some folk home,” Coulson agreed, ”but not everyone. Helblindi isn’t accepting the excuse ‘I have a prior invitation’.” Or the Red Skull wasn’t, but the guy being tortured probably wasn’t much interested in the distinction.

“I’ve got an idea. Intel says Borgarísjaki Vatnson is solid loyal. Right?” Clint Barton nudged the map with the notch end of an arrow; feather’s flicking over the largest of the remaining loyalist territories. The red dots by each town name marked the sad lack of success the bard crews had achieved.

“Sadly.” Logan shifted the map out of range. “He might change if he could see how gone Helblindi is, but the king isn’t leaving Jötnarhöll, and Borgarísjaki isn’t listening to any blasphemous rumors. That’s one Ice Giant who is stone cold loyal. Dumb as a block of ice – but loyal.”

“Plus he’s got his son serving in Hilbindi’s court and that makes him very hard to turn. High risk – no reward.” Coulson added. “The kid’s a hostage. Not officially, but I wouldn’t make book on the kid getting leave any time soon.”

“So maybe we work with that.” Barton snagged the map back, “Switch gears. Go all ‘rah rah Helblindi’ and see if Borgarísjaki will send his troops to counter Loki’s incursions in Grondar-Ymir.

“What?” Logan reached out – then gave up and left the map where it was. “We aren’t even in Grondar-Ymir.” As ‘there’ went? The ancient ice sheets on the far side of the Ymir mountains were the perfect example of ‘there is no there there’.

“Exactly!” Barton cut in. “Half a planet away from Helblindi, and even farther away from where we are going to be. By the time his troops are on the road it will be too late for them to turn around and reinforce the loyalists.”

“And if they do try to reinforce Helblindi?” Coulson traced the single cleft running through the glacier field. “From Grondar-Ymir they’ll have to come up to his rear rather then ours.”

Logan grinned, white and feral. “I like the way you think, Barton. You’re crazy, but smart.”

“Too bad we have to say the same about Schmidt,” Coulson cautioned.

“Nah,” Barton countered. “He’s just plain unflavored crazy.”

“Which sucks.” Logan cooperated by picking up the quip. “I mean – here I’ve been busting my butt to drive him crazy, but he was crazy to begin with so… not much change.”

Coulson grinned back, sharper than Logan’s claws and twice and vicious. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

*~*~*

“Hey. Logan.” Agent Alexander Pierce pulled the other man aside. Not far aside, given the tight quarters of the buried igloo that made up the hidden watch-post, but enough so that a murmur would be ignored. “You get a bad feeling about this? Given that we’re putting our asses on the line for who the fuck knows what. And that our side is Loki, who isn’t exactly George Washington. And that, you know, all the guys in charge of this opp are pretty much legally insane.”

“Nope.” 

“No?”

“Nah. I’m used to it. ” Logan didn’t pause the slow grind of teeth on his unlit cigar. “I’ve been a soldier since 1942. Fuck that, I was a Howling Commando, which – while Cap is a great guy in his way – was about as whack-ass an operation as ever misconceived. By now?” He twisted to look up at Clint. “By know I wouldn’t know what to do with a good cause if I tripped over one.”

“So you don’t mind this war being crap because they all are?”

“Pretty much.”

“Then – why do you stay with it?”

“I’m good at it.”

“That’s it?” The SHIELD agent looked vaguely horrified.

Logan shrugged. “Man’s gotta follow his bliss.”


	14. Chapter 14

“Three more planes.” Coulson ghosted over to where the flagmen were directing traffic. ”We should have them on the runway in the next thirty minutes if we can get overflight clearance from the Finns.”

Steve Rogers checked those flights off his clipboard. “Didn’t someone tell them there’s a war going on?”

“Actually – no.” Coulson’s smile was colder than the runway winds. “We’d like to keep it that way.”

“We figure Finland would tell Germany, and Germany would send their bombs air express. With love from them to you.” Tony strolled up, fur hood pulled tight over his red and gold Iron Man helmet. “Only, you know, without any of the love part. German’s aren’t real fond of you after your last little showtime. But hey – we share your desire to keep this on schedule.”

“Yeh.” Clint Barton glared over Stark’s shoulder. “No one wants to see you gone more than I do.

*~*~*

“Skriðjökull drangs! Line up behind the jarfi on the far side.” Björn Kló paced along the assembled lines of the Jotun forces, now and then using the blunt end of his spear on the leg or arm of any foot soldier inclined to break ranks.

The Jotun forces made an impressive display, Tony Stark acknowledged. Even beyond the whole big-and-blue. Or the bit where were cut enough to pass as the Hulks smaller (not that much smaller) and slimmer (but again – not that much) baby brother. Loki (for which read SHIELD, for which read Stark Industries) had kitted the troop up a Renn-Faire version of Special Forces chic. Each soldier had a full set of arm and leg grieves, and most of them had riveted protective plates to their thick leather tunics. For weapons they carried welsh pikes, backed up with double-headed axes. The officers carried steel broadswords. Compared to the loincloth and bone-tipped-spear images their undercover recon troop had sent back of Helblindi’s soldiers? High tech.

Tony might not – not any more – be a big supporter of the ‘war’ concept. That didn’t mean he’d lost any of his enthusiasm for the doctrine that – if you did go to war – you troops should be massively overarmed and oversupplied. A rival had once laughed that American general’s liked expensive armies. Tony hadn’t caught the joke. Of course they did. Expensive armies *worked*.

“Himthiki! Gather your thengn.” Björn signaled to the older warriors, the petty commanders who – to SHIELD understanding – served as lieutenants or perhaps senior sergeants. The frost equivalent of fire team leaders. ”Keep close ranks before the Midgard troops until we pass the gates, then spread out to skirmish positions. You must take out any warriors who rush from the opposing ranks, so that the champions of Midgard will have access to Rauður Höfuðkúpa.” He searched the eyes of each of the senior men, one by one. They, in turn, bowed. .

“Barton!” Coulson joined the Jotun commander. “Tuck in to the second rank.” He pointed at an opening between two particularly well-armed ice giants. “When you get an opening – take it. Head shot. No gymnastics. No fancy footwork.” He hesitated, then added “no prisoners.”

Barton pulled his bow from its fur cover. “Will do.”

The portal opened again.

Oh oh. That wasn’t (if Tony was any judge of military movement – and for that see previous comments) part of the regularly scheduled service. More animals in harness, and holy crap. Were those cats? Tiger sized cats. Saber-toothed tiger sized monster cats. Cats like Cujo's nightmare.

Loki froze. And no, Stark didn’t mean that in the blue-and-naked sense. 

“Meow”. The first of the animals pushed its head into Loki’s hand.

Yep. Tortoiseshell. But at that size the ‘feed me’ came across more as ‘feed me your leg’.

Tony wondered if the Hulk formula would work on mice. Just to give the creatures a fighting chance against fluffy there.

“Odin’s queen.” Loki very carefully did not shift position as the huge gold sled screeched inches from his foot. “We move up in politics.”

“Say rather your mother, come to help her son.” She raised her hand, and the Viking troops behind her split into two streams.

“You seem a touch pink for that.”

Very pale, Tony noted, although not in the dead-fish shades of some of Loki’s more… interesting… contacts. More a silver-gilt version of Thor. With her blonde curls and pink cheeks the lady in the sled should have been comforting – motherly, even. Instead? She was one scary mother.

“Bore you I did not, but fed you I did.” The jewel-decked woman stepped lightly onto the ice. “Or do you deny your milk debt?”

“Knésetja” Now, Loki bowed.

“Then for what you tongue gained, stay your tongue today.”

Wait a minute. “ Stark grabbed Thor by his cape. “I thought Freya was all weaving and staying home to – you know – grow funky apples.”

“So do the men of Midgard miss-estimate women.” Thor now grabbed Stark, pushing him up to where all the important players were gathering. “Frigga is Queen and Shield Mother – and from the slain she chooses half the dead.”

“And who gets the other half?” Tony wasn’t real fond of the idea of conscription. Post-mortem conscription maybe even less.

“Odin gets the other half.” Loki – who clearly had better hearing than Stark suspected – answered. (Either better hearing – or a desperate desire to divert the conversation onto non-family topics. “Although?” Loki gave his brother a considering look. “Thor will lead them on the last day.”

“And you get?” Tony wasn’t really liking the idea of generals who preferred their troops to come pre-killed.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Loki was looking at Tony Stark – but he was so evidently talking to family. “Eventually – if the runes read right – a rather terminal nautical adventure. Today, however?”

Loki smiled gently at Angrboða, who was embracing Frigga with a new-mother-in-law hope-she-likes-me sort of blushing hesitation that evidently transcended culture, species, and killer-blue-muscle-ness. Comforting to know that – even after the Bifrost blew away special relativity – there were still some natural laws to the universe.

Yep. Tony smiled. It was good to be king. Queen.

“And look who else comes with me.” Frigga was smiling again, in that sweet Mrs. Polifax way that was scarier than shit.

A horse marched down the ramp. It wasn’t pulling a gold sled. It looked more like it had decided to wear the sled. The gold, at least. Very little actual equine was visible under the plate armor and embroidered trappings.

“Sle…” Loki was staring, mouth open, at the open portal. “Do NOT tell me Odin is joining our game!”

And wouldn’t that be a total disaster? Perhaps, Tony mused, he could just get Loki summon the Bifrost again, and this time they all could jump off of it.

What came though, however, was not the one-eyed King of the Asir. (Or, as Tony mentally tagged him, Fury’s older, meaner, brother.) What came though was the older, meaner brother of my My Friend Flicka. Only without the friendliness part.

The huge horse neighed. It was a particularly, uniquely nasty neigh – a neigh of snark and venom.

“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean… Just….” Loki was all over the hay-burner, hugging the muscled neck and rubbing his face into the shaggy mane.

“Who the hell is?” Tony looked at Thor, who looked at his mom.

“My grandson,” Frigga answered. “He does not often approve of his father’s… politics… but like me he wishes him to be well. Happy, even, if that is possible.”

“So.” Tony wasn’t sure if he should bow, or scratch an ear, or offer to shake a hoof. And oh lord; speaking of hooves? There was rather an oversupply of them. In numbers and in… holy crap were those feet large. Compared to Slipper there, the Budweiser Clydesdales were toy poodles. The yappy sort women carried around in purses. “Thor. In battle? We should?”

How did you ask your local god if his nephew was tactical support or transportation?

“Avoid him,” Thor advised.

“Yeh.” Tony could see the point. Those hooves looked terminal.

*~*~*  
It was surprisingly easy to get the new arrivals into battle formation.

Practice, Tony assumed. Ten thousand years of unceasing warfare did give one a solid grounding in the battle formations of the other side.

They tucked Frigga and her entourage on the far side of Thor and the Warriors Three. That was the weaker flank – numerically, at any rate - so reinforcements made tactical sense. The placement also reduced the options for misunderstandings and not-so-friendly fire.

Natasha, on the other hand, had decided to shift out of position. She was currently sitting on the back wall of Queen Mum’s sled, slipping bits of salad to Thor’s nephew.

At Tony’s raised eyebrow, Clint Barton shrugged. “I guess she likes horses. Don’t all girls?”

Sleipnir– that was the name – right? Sleipnir was sidestepping and tossing his mane like a circus pony.

“Looks like the feeling is mutual.”

“Hey Tash!” Clint shouted. “No horsing around. At least – not until this battle is over. You’re at my back.”  
The Black Widow was laughed. Bracing her foot on the runner blade, she lightly vaulted onto Sleipnir’s saddle blanket.

Sleipnir galloped in a wide circle, his rider posing on one foot like a deadly ballerina.

“Bad news, Clint” Tony quipped. “I think she just swapped your back for his.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knésetja means – in little translation ‘knee-setting’. The ceremony referred to is one of adoption, or formal fostering. To catch an important plot point happening here – check Wikipedia.


	15. Chapter 15

Zero minute.

The portal opened.

The baresarks of the front ranks ran screaming down the field. It was traditional. Useless – which was also traditional. These would take the traditional massive casualties. They would also, and this was the point, break the lines of the equally undisciplined ranks of Hilbindi’s drang.

Behind them, skirmish teams moved up. Well trained, well armored, and better weaponed than anything except the elite Asir, they were Loki’s force multipliers. Encircling selected bits of Hilbindi’s scattered spearmen, the disciplined squads would defeat them in detail.

Bowmen (bowJotun?) split from the main body, claiming perches on high ground. They would be responsible for acting strategically, killing the field commanders and blocking any effort of Helblindi’s troops to rally or regroup.

Bloody chess – and yes, these were the pawns – but pawns were there to clear the board. To open the patch to the opposite king. A chess master knew he needed his pawns. Needed them most. Needed them to do their jobs.

These were good soldiers. They would.

Coulson switched his attention to the Asir wing.

One of Helblindi’s major jarls (Bergelmir of the Rime Clans if Coulson read the markings correctly) had left the main rank - bringing his well-drilled house troop up on the visibly alien Asir.

Queen Frigga’s band was responding, the bulk of her force linking shields in a wedge with the Warriors Three giving edge protection. Ax-headed pikes slashed the unarmored Jotun and kept the Asir at safe length from the frozen ice-spears. They were making swift, bloody progress. Not as well as they might have done with better tactics and training. From his background he could judge their formations primitive, their coordination simplistic, their combat approach brutal.

They were still fucking awesome.

Karnilla of Nornheim’s guards marched behind the Free Jotun force. Her stone giants crashed down on the trailing flank, leaving shattered any Jotun fortunate (unfortunate) enough to have survived the killing grounds of the main army.

They were fierce, and terrible, and irrelevant.

*~*~*

At the back of the field a row of tank-behemoths clawed the ice.

They were plain metal, no blood-hued HYDRA heraldry staining the riveted armor, but… no adornment was needed. These mechanical monstrosities stank of evil in every angle of their brutal architecture.

Hilbindi’s troops scattered before the new force. Those who did not were indifferently crushed.

*~*~*

Coulson signaled for stage two.

Stark’s blacksmith crew, each barely bipedal within their layers of leather protection, cleared the gate at a jog. They came in pairs with a clay beehive oven slung on long poles, bellows attendants trotting along and cranking furiously.

“Stark?” Coulson signed to the radioman (radioJotun) cranking the open crystal receiver.

“Look up.” Tony’s voice came though in crackles and hums.

The First Free-Jotun Air Expeditionary Wing rose majestically into the air, white steam curling around the slim cigar shapes of the silk balloons.

Both SHIELD and Loki had been concerned about the limitations the ice reams put on technology. The peculiar geas of the Yggdrasil realms ruled out standard air-war tactics – or the entire thing could have been handled by Colonel Rhodes alone – with our without the War Machine armor.

Tony had cleverly gotten around that detail.

Really – air support was as old as Napoleon.

When heat met an atmosphere as frigid at that of Jotunheim? A square foot of hot air could lift a lot of rock – and a rock from a thousand meters could flatten a lot of funky Nazi robotics.

*~*~*

Helbindi’s main front spun left, away from the chaos of mechanized death. Sections of the force were faltering, either exhausted or fearing Red Skull - their own supposed ally - more than the comprehensible Jotun ranks of Loki’s army. From that same fear, however, the core of the army held firm.

Spearmen pressed forward, giant muscles sending deadly man-lengths of needle-sharp ice raining down in waves of arctic shrapnel. Blood and broken limbs spattered into the ranks of Loki’s supporters.

“Queen Frigga. Shield wall!” Coulson shouted over the din of screeching metal.

Not that he really thought they would break, even if the last arrow-punch of a fleeing royal army went their way, but why take risks? The biggest risk of which being that Helblindi would panic, run, and Frigga would have to kill him before her son could make it though the square of house troops surrounding the Jotun king.

Here troops instantly obeyed, locking together into a wall of leather and iron. Behind that, the second rank mounted pikes. Ax crews formed on the edges, discouraging sorties around the sides.

Hydra’s tanks slowed, treads broken or locked as Stark’s barrage of hot iron melted the ice under the massive machines.

The Red Skull rose, face burning like lava. Blue light launched from his gun. Jotun warriors – Loki’s and Helblindi’s together – dissolved in the lethal glare.

Captain America’s shield spun.

It caught Johann Schmidt in the neck.

His head landed twenty feet away.

“Rogers!” Coulson’s voice was half shock and half denial.

“What?” Steve Rogers looked confused at the SHIELD agent’s confusion. “Did you really think I was going to punch him out like Hitler?”

*~*~*

“Skera af einn limur og tveir fleiri munu taka þess staður!”

Even as his first knorr bottomed into the shore-rime, Hrungnir Sea-strider pulled his troops into a tight wedge. What few he had left – most being left behind on the Vígahnöttur shore and so many more boats abandoned to make their limping way along the coast-path. Of all the fleet dispatched against Loki only three boats remained to him – but those sailors he had bore vengeance along with their spears.

He was half a span down the shore – sea grass hiding his landing from the battle roar. He was also, he realized with sudden satisfaction, third in line after Helblindi. (And fifth after Loki – but no need to consider that. If the line went to Loki – Hrungnir would be lucky to survive as a thrall.) 

He may have come too late to save Rauður Höfuðkúpa , but battles did not have only one grave.

Hefting his ax, Hrungnir lead his men to battle.

Behind him, crusted in salt-ice, a yellow reptilian form rose from the foam. The Abomination – for Emil Blonskey – reached out. 

Hrungnir did not make his third step.

*~*~*

Loki pressed forward, Ólmast Pækillson on his sword side, Björn Kló on his shield. His green banner cut like a scorn against the white death of the battlefield.

Slepnir ran before his mother. Behind the horse followed a path of crushed ice. Some of the ice was still moaning. Eight hooves made no distinction.  
ß  
“Helblindi-gylfin.” Loki’s taunt echoed over the clang of combat. 

“Gríðníðingr”, the ice king's answer came, loud and sharp as a calving iceberg.

Loki laughed. His slash sliced away Helblindi cape, breaking the jeweled pins that secured it to the giant’s shoulders. “Kin killer indeed, younger brother. Do you flyt? Seeing that you say I follow your custom.”

“Sannsorðin.” Helblindi hissed. His kick crumpled Loki’s knee, forcing him back into the ice pack.

“Weak níð from a níðingr”. Loki pulled himself up, even as his shield splintered under the Jotun king’s strong blows. Ólmast Pækillson fell back, wounded.

Björn Kló rushed the Jotun king.

_“Better a prince to bear a prince  
Then a thrall in thrall to a thrall.” _

The distraction, as the young Jotun took the king’s blows, served for the few seconds Loki needed to recover.

Loki slashed up, the adamantium edge of his blade cutting though horn.

Helblindi screamed, blue blood spattering.

Summoning all his strength, Loki slashed at his foes sword.

Loki’s glaive shattered.

Vibranium. Damnable Norns, Helblindi’s sword was vibranium. So there was indeed one last treasure Odin did not steal. Perhaps, Loki thought madly, the All-Father could take that as one last false werield for one last false son.

Helblindi stuck again.

Loki dodged.

The ice terrain splintered below him.

Loki‘s blood splattered.

Helblindi roared, madness and victory in his mouth.

Angrboða gripped Helblindi by his sword arm. Ripping it off, she beat him to shards with it.


	16. Chapter 16 - The End

“Loki. We hold the sea shore.” Emil Blonsky staggered up, the lizard-skin of his transformation slipping back to human as he spoke. Logan and the others from the Vígahnöttur team rallied around their exhausted leader.

“Loki-king. The mountain forces offer no further resistance.” Hogun the Grim was anything but.

“Your majesty!” Two of Angrboða’s Rokholt warriors called up. “Klaki Borgarísjakison surrenders.”

“Sire.” A gold-decked ice giant dripped his gilded blade at Loki’s feet. “Jötnarhöll is yours.”

“Brother!” Thor bounced over the growing company. “We have won!”

“My king.” Ólmast Pækillson whispered. “Björn Kló is dead.”

Loki fell to his knees. Björn lay on the ice, his young face blue and perfect above the shattered breastplate. No. Loki could fix this. He was owed one last favor. Just as soon as he could get…

‘Coulson?” Tony Starks voice echoed down, calling for landing instructions.

Loki pulled his hand back. One gift – but it was already bartered. Sold along with his kin and his weir and…

His subjects were waiting.

“Pull up the ships – and gather all the scattered weapons. Take the best and make crew and cargo.” At their hesitation he added, soft as a bard: “Björn Kló, heir of Jökull Ice-Pick and Hríðarbylur, was born of the Western Islands and I promised him that land.” Ten paces of land, and a house of piled rocks. Poor payment from a poor friend. From his own neck Loki took the gold and ruby torc. A king’s ransom – and Bjorn had indeed ransomed a kingdom. He would not send his friend a beggar to Odin’s mead-hall.

*~*~*

So that was that.

The airships were landed. Most had even managed to hit the ground at sub-terminal velocity and somewhere within hiking distance of the marked landing area. 

Frigga was off doing… Stark didn’t want to think what. Hopefully nothing particularly cannibalistic. He wanted to keep his Saturday morning cartoon image of the Asir. The useful delusion damped down the rational ‘oh my ghod alien overlord’ part of his brain and let unicorns and rainbows float up on a soft blanket of alcohol and denial.

Most of the non-Jotun forces had been herded back to the portal. Stark Industries personnel would be waiting with meals and medical check. SHIELD would handle the de-mob. The quinjet would shuttle human metas back to the warmer continents. Steven Strange would portal off-world allies … off world.

Most of the local population was standing around trying to look loyal. If not loyal, then at least lawful. At the minimum, non-treasonous.

For lack of better entertainment, Stark followed the general drift.

Loki’s holt was a rough palace, more windbreak than hall. Bulks of the crumpled tanks had been sledged together to make three walls, with snow packed into the gaps where the metal broke. Lumps of shattered ice had been pilled up to make a throne.

There was a metaphor there, Tony was sure.

The crowd parted to let Stark though. Well – they did after the Jotun NCO types watching the door whacked a few heads. Crowd control at its red-carpet finest. When he reached the front most of the other Avengers were visible, along with most of the Jotun upper management.

Loki had the center seat, naturally. He was in his blue form, naked except for jewels, his gold-horn helmet, and a semi-shredded mutant-polar-bear cape. Stark noted – just for the scientific record – that Jotun’s did not in fact have a problem with shrinkage. The huge sword thrust into the snow at Loki’ left hand had nothing to compensate for. Good news for the establishment of domestic tranquility. So to speak.

Thinking of which? Angrboða crouched cross-legged at Loki’s side, cuddled up with the gray-furred jarfi. Stark wasn’t sure if this was because of sexism, or they just couldn’t find a chair, or because she (She? He? It?) wasn’t official consort yet. Or maybe, his inner Howard whispered, it was because even from floor level the ice giant was half a head taller than the horny blue runt.

Thor was kneeling before Loki, holding out the Casket of Ancient Winters like a plate of cookies.

Loki lifted the square. The crowed… not cheered. Cheering, Stark had expected. Cheering was normal. This was… This sound was the same disbelieving huff his own throat had made when Pepper had slammed the power core back into his arc reactor, life and hope returning in white agony.

“I thank you, dearest brother.” Loki didn’t even sound like he was lying. “You have been most faithful in this.”

“And you most patient with me, dearest Loki.”

Loki stood, pulling Thor to his feet. They air kissed like a pair of starlets up for the same award show. NOW the crowd cheered.

Sleipnir trotted up, two small blue figures clutching his mane for dear life. Nari and Váli. Loki’s stepchildren. Sleipnir’s stepbrothers? From the stuffed-teddy way two sets of thin blue hands patted the horse’s muscled neck? From Váli ‘s whoops of excitement, and the eager kick of Nari’s bare heels into the steeds’ well-padded side? Clearly this was not going to be a fairy-tale relationship.

Loki hugged all three.

The two boys hugged Loki back, little limpets.

Sleipnir whinnied. This time – Stark was shocked – all the snark was gone. The beast sounded… happy.

“Go then.” Loki touched foreheads again. “Tell your – our – kin of your victory this day, and take with you my invitation to meet at happier times.”

Thor mounted. Sleipnir took off at a gallop.

Stark edged up to Coulson. “What’s with the personality transplant?” 

“King’s don’t think like humans,” came the quick answer. “Blood is alliance, and a throne can not support squabbles.”

“As for Midgard?” Loki summoned the Avenger’s forward. Well, mostly he called Captain America, but the rest of the crew made a plus-more-than-one. “Your prize was to be Schmitt.”

“He’s dead.” Rogers still wasn’t sounding regretful.

“He is dead, right? Is he dead?” Tony suddenly needed to get the contract details nailed down. “We can settle for dead. Dead is good. Dead works for me.”

“Not exactly.” Loki’s answer was slow. “Something can not become nothing.”

“Well then. Thanks for nothing. Or not. You know.”

“Say the Red Skull is gone, and he will not again bother the Nine Worlds.”

“Works for me. Work for you, Rogers?” Stark didn’t wait for the answer. “He’s good.”

“But I promised you a man’s life for weregeld.” 

Loki’s grin was strangely unterrifying. Stark decided to worry anyway – just as a matter of prudence and policy.

“Something can not become nothing, but anything can become something… and really, one bit of Midgard rabble is much like another. So? Coulson?”

Loki’s fingers twisted though a few more dimensions than even Jane Foster could quantify.

Winds screeched. The smoke that made up the Agent glowed green, then red, then flared white like magnesium in a rainstorm. When vision returned one more body stood in the clearing.

“Phil!” Barton gasped.

“He’s alive.” Roger’s stated the obvious.

Banner frowned at the goose bumps rising on Phil Coulson’s suddenly-solid flesh. “You might want to get him a cloak, if you’d like him to stay that way.”

“Yes. Please.” Phil Coulson cleared one arm from Barton’s full-body embrace. Not the full arm, but fingers enough to make a ‘gimmie’ motion in Banner’s direction. “Seriously, this place is colder than a witches … umm…”

“Arctic front?” Rogers suggested.

Stark laughed. “Nippier than a shaved shizu?”

“Frigid like a frost giant’s finger.” Natasha offered.

Banner – sensible – offered a space blanket and something that looked like purple clown pants.

Phil took both. “Thanks.”

Banner smiled. “I always pack spare pants.”

“So” Loki asked as Coulson prepared to lead the last of the Midgard crew back to earth. “All debts are paid?”

“Well, the RICCA people may come after you but - yes.” Coulson held out his hand. “Settled.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Rogers bowed. For the embodiment of a republic, the man was damn comfortable with formal manners. Stark decided to blame Fallsworth. (He would have preferred to blame his dad, but not even Tony’s issues could put the words Howard Stark and etiquette in the same paragraph.)

“Then go.” Loki dismissed the crew. “I have a coronation to plan.”

Stark turned at the door, shooting the company a quick salute. “Stay frosty.”

*~*~*  
*~*~*  
*~*~*

What – you were expecting feels?  
This is Loki.  
This is politics.  
THIS + IS+ ASGARD

*~*~*  
*~*~*  
*~*~*

 

With apologies, both for the long delay and for the … well, the ending is less polished than I might have wished. Also less epic. But hey – finished. That’s something.

©KKR 2014


End file.
